The Conqueror

VIII

Rachael was rid­ing home one af­ter­noon from Bas­seterre, where she had been pur­chas­ing sum­mer lawns and cam­brics. It was March, and the win­ter sun had be­gun to use its sum­mer fu­el; but the trades blew soft­ly, and there was much shade on the road above the sea. There was one long stretch, how­ev­er, where not a tree grew, and Rachael drew rein for a mo­ment be­fore leav­ing the av­enue of tamarinds which had rus­tled above her head for a mile or more. Al­though it was a hot scene that lay be­fore her, it was that which, when away from home, for some rea­son best known to her mem­ory, had al­ways been first to rise. The wide pale-​gray road rose grad­ual­ly for a long dis­tance, dipped, and rose again. On ei­ther side were cane-​fields, their ten­der greens sharp against the deep hard blue of the sea on the left, ris­ing to co­coanut groves and the dark heights of the moun­tains above the road. Far away, close to the sea, was Brim­stone Hill, that huge iso­lat­ed rock so near in shape to the crater of Mount Mis­ery. Its for­ti­fi­ca­tions showed their teeth against the fad­ed sky, and St. Christo­pher slept eas­ily while ten­ta­tive con­querors ap­proached, looked hard at this Gibral­tar of the West In­dies, and sailed away.

But there scarce­ly was a sail on the sea to-​day. Its blue rose and fell, in that vast un­bro­ken har­mo­ny which quick­ens the West In­di­an at times in­to an in­tol­er­able sense of his iso­la­tion. Rachael re­called how she had stared at it in child­ish re­sent­ment, won­der­ing if a main­land re­al­ly lay be­yond, if Eu­rope were a myth. She did not care if she nev­er set foot on a ship again, and her am­bi­tions were in the grave with her de­sire for a wealthy and in­tel­lec­tu­al hus­band.

On the long road, ris­ing gray and hot be­tween the bright green cane-​fields, horse­men ap­proached, and a num­ber of slave wom­en moved slow­ly: wom­en with erect rigid backs bal­anc­ing large bas­kets or stacks of cane on their heads, the body be­low the waist re­volv­ing with a piv­otal mo­tion which sug­gests an anato­my pe­cu­liar to the trop­ics. They had a dash of red about them some­where, and their tur­bans were white. Rachael's imag­ina­tion nev­er gave her St. Kitts with­out its slave wom­en, the “pic'nees” cling­ing to their hips as they bore their bur­dens on the road or bent over the stones in the riv­er. They be­longed to its land­scape, with the palms and the cane-​fields, the hot gray roads, and the great jew­el of the sea.

Rachael left the av­enue and rode on­ward. One of the horse­men took off his Span­ish som­brero and waved it. She rec­og­nized Dr. Hamil­ton and shook her whip at him. He and his com­pan­ion spurred their hors­es, and a mo­ment lat­er Rachael and James Hamil­ton had met.

“An un­ex­pect­ed plea­sure for me, this sud­den de­scent of my young kins­man,” said the doc­tor, “but a great one, for he brings me news of all in Scot­land, and he saw Will the day be­fore he sailed.”

“It is too hot to stand here talk­ing,” said Rachael. “Come home with me to a glass of Span­ish port, and cake per­haps.”

The doc­tor was on his way to a con­sul­ta­tion, but he or­dered his rel­ative to go and pay his re­spects to Mis­tress Fawcett, and rode on whistling. The two he had reck­less­ly left to their own de­vices ex­changed plat­itudes, and covert­ly ex­am­ined each oth­er with quick ad­mi­ra­tion.

There are dark Scots, and Hamil­ton was one of them. Al­though tall and slight, he was knit with a close and pe­cu­liar el­egance, which made him look his best on a horse and in white linen. His face was burnt to the hue of brick-​dust by the first quick as­sault of the trop­ic sun, but it was a thin face, well shaped, in spite of promi­nent cheek bones, and set with the fea­tures of long breed­ing; and it was mo­bile, fiery, im­petu­ous, and very in­tel­li­gent: an­ces­tral coarse­ness had been pol­ished fine long since.

They left the road and mount­ed to­ward the dark av­enue of the Fawcett es­tate, Rachael won­der­ing if her moth­er would be ir­ri­tat­ed at the in­for­mal­ity of the stranger's first call; he should have ar­rived in state with Dr. Hamil­ton at the hour of five. Per­haps it was to post­pone the mo­ment of ex­pla­na­tion that she per­mit­ted her horse to walk, even af­ter they had reached the lev­el of the av­enue, and fi­nal­ly to crop the grass while she and Hamil­ton dis­mount­ed and sat down in a heavy grove of tamarinds on the slope of the hill.

“I'm just twen­ty-​one and have my own way to make,” he was telling her. “There are three be­fore me, so I couldn't af­ford the army, and as I've a fan­cy for for­eign lands, I've come out here to be a mer­chant. I have so many kins­men in this part of the world, and they've all suc­ceed­ed so well, I thought they'd be able to ad­vise me how best to turn over the few guineas I have. My cousin, the doc­tor, has tak­en me in hand, and if I have any busi­ness ca­pac­ity I shall soon find it out. But I ached for the army, and fail­ing that, I'd have liked be­ing a schol­ar--as I know you are, by your eyes.”

His Scotch ac­cent was not un­like that of the West In­di­ans, par­tic­ular­ly of the Bar­ba­di­ans; but his voice, al­though it re­tained the husk­iness of the wet North, had, some­where in its depths, a pe­cu­liar metal­lic qual­ity which star­tled Rachael ev­ery time it rang out, and was the last of all mem­ories to linger, when mem­ories were crum­bling in a brain that could stand no more.

How it hap­pened, Rachael spent the san­er hours of the mor­row at­tempt­ing to ex­plain, but they sat un­der the tamarinds un­til the sun went down, and Nevis be­gan to robe for the night. Once they paused in their desul­to­ry talk and lis­tened to the love­ly cho­rus of a West In­di­an evening, that low in­ces­sant ring­ing of a mil­lion tiny bells. The bells hung in the throats of noth­ing more pic­turesque than grasshop­pers, ser­pents, lizards, and frogs so small as to be al­most in­vis­ible, but they rang with a har­mo­ny that the in­her­it­ed prac­tice of cen­turies had giv­en them. And be­yond was the monotonous ac­com­pa­ni­ment of the sea on the rocks. Hamil­ton lived to be an old man, and he nev­er left the West In­dies; but some­times, at long and longer in­ter­vals, he found him­self lis­ten­ing to that Lil­liputian or­ches­tra, his at­ten­tion at­tract­ed to it, pos­si­bly, by a stranger; and then he re­mem­bered this night, and the wom­an for whom he would have sac­ri­ficed earth and im­mor­tal­ity had he been lord of them.

Heav­en knows what they talked about. While it was light they stared out at the blue sea or down on the rip­pling cane-​fields, not dar­ing to ex­change more than a ca­su­al and hasty glance. Both knew that they should have sep­arat­ed the mo­ment they met, but nei­ther had the im­pulse nor the in­ten­tion to leave the shade of the wood; and when the brief twi­light fell and the moon rose, there still was Nevis, and af­ter her the many craft to di­vert their gaze. Hamil­ton was hon­ourable and shy, and Rachael was a wom­an of un­com­mon strength of char­ac­ter and had been brought up by a wom­an of aus­tere virtue. These caus­es held them apart for a time, but one might as well have at­tempt­ed to block two comets rush­ing at each oth­er in the same or­bit. The mag­netism of the In­evitable em­braced them and knit their in­ner selves to­geth­er, even while they sat deco­rous­ly apart. Rachael had tak­en off her hat at once, and even af­ter it grew dark in their ar­bour, Hamil­ton fan­cied he could see the gleam of her hair. Her eyes were star­tled and bril­liant, and her nos­trils quiv­ered un­easi­ly, but she de­fined none of the sen­sa­tions that pos­sessed her but the over­whelm­ing re­crude­scence of her youth. It had seemed to her that it flamed from its ash­es be­fore Dr. Hamil­ton fin­ished his for­mal words of in­tro­duc­tion, and all its for­got­ten hopes and im­puls­es, timid­ity and vague­ness, surged through her brain dur­ing those hours be­side the stranger, sub­merg­ing the mem­ory of Levine. In­deed, she felt even younger than be­fore ma­tu­ri­ty so sud­den­ly had been thrust up­on her; for in those old days she had been al­most as severe­ly in­tel­lec­tu­al as yes­ter­day, and when she had dreamed of the fu­ture, it had been with the sober­ness of an over­taxed brain. But to-​day even the world seemed young again. She fan­cied she could hear the un­qui­et puls­es of the Is­land, so long grown old, and Nevis had nev­er looked so fair. She hard­ly was con­scious of her wom­an­hood, on­ly of that pos­sess­ing sense of hap­pi­ness in youth. As for Hamil­ton, he had nev­er felt oth­er­wise than young, al­though he was a col­lege-​bred man, some­thing of a schol­ar, and he had seen more or less of the world since his boy­hood. But the in­ten­si­ty and ar­dour of his na­ture had re­ceived no check, nei­ther were they halfway on their course; and he had nev­er loved. It had seemed to him that the Is­land opened and a witch came out, and in those con­fused hours he hard­ly knew whether she were good or bad, his ide­al wom­an or his ide­al dev­il; but he loved her. He was as pale as his sun­burn would per­mit him to be, and his hands were clasped tight­ly about his knees, when re­lief came in the shape of Mary Fawcett.

Her daugh­ter's horse had gone home and tak­en the stranger with him, and Mis­tress Fawcett, with quick sus­pi­cion, new as it was, start­ed at once down the av­enue. Rachael heard the fa­mil­iar tap­ping of her moth­er's stick, hasti­ly ad­just­ed her hat, and man­aged to reach the road with Hamil­ton be­fore her moth­er turned its bend.

Mary Fawcett un­der­stood and shiv­ered with ter­ror. She was far from be­ing her im­pe­ri­ous self as her daugh­ter pre­sent­ed the stranger and re­marked that he was a cousin of Dr. Hamil­ton, char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly re­frain­ing from apol­ogy or ex­pla­na­tion.

“Well,” she said, “the doc­tor will doubt­less bring you to call some day. I will send your horse to you. Say good evening to the stranger, Rachael, and come home.” She was one of the most hos­pitable wom­en in the Caribbees, and this was the kins­man of her best friend, but she longed for pow­er to ex­ile him out of St. Kitts that night.

Hamil­ton lift­ed his hat, and Rachael fol­lowed her moth­er. She was cold and fright­ened, and Levine's white ma­lig­nant face cir­cled about her.

Her moth­er re­quest­ed her sup­port, and she al­most car­ried the light fig­ure to the house. Mis­tress Fawcett sent a slave af­ter Hamil­ton's horse, then went to her room and wrote a note to Dr. Hamil­ton, ask­ing him to call on the fol­low­ing day and to come alone. The two wom­en did not meet again that night.

But there is lit­tle pri­va­cy in the hous­es of St. Kitts and Nevis. Ei­ther the up­per part of al­most ev­ery room is built of or­na­men­tal lat­tice-​work, or the walls are set with nu­mer­ous jalousies, that can be closed when a draught is un­de­sir­able but con­duct the slight­est sound. Rachael's room ad­joined her moth­er's. She knew that the old­er wom­an was as un­easi­ly awake as her­self, though from vast­ly dif­fer­ent man­ifes­ta­tions of the same cause. At four o'clock, when the guinea fowl were screech­ing like demons, and had awak­ened the roost­ers and the dogs to swell the in­fer­nal cho­rus of a West In­di­an morn­ing, Rachael sat up in bed and laughed noise­less­ly.

“What a night!” she thought. “And for what? A man who com­pan­ioned me for four hours as no oth­er man had ev­er done? and who made me feel as if the world had turned to fire and light? It may have been but a mood of my own, it is so long since I have talked with a man near to my own age--and he is so near!--and yet so re­al a man.... No one could call him hand­some, for he looks like a flayed Carib, and I have met some of the hand­somest men in Eu­rope and not giv­en them a thought. Yet this man kept me be­side him for four hours, and has me awake a whole night be­cause he is not with me. Has the dis­ci­pline of these last years, then, gone for noth­ing? Am I but an ex­citable West In­di­an af­ter all, and shall I have cord­ed hands be­fore I am twen­ty-​five? It was a mis­take to shut my­self away from dan­ger. Had I been con­stant­ly meet­ing the young men of the Is­land and all strangers who have come here dur­ing the last two years, I should not be wild for this one--even if he has some­thing in him un­like oth­er men--and lie awake all night like the sil­ly wom­en who dream ev­er­last­ing­ly of the lover to come. I am a fool.”

She lit her can­dle and went in­to her moth­er's room. Mary Fawcett was sit­ting up in bed, her white hair hang­ing out of her night­cap. It seemed to her that the end of the world had come, and she cursed hu­man na­ture and the gov­er­nors of the Is­land.

“I know what has kept you awake,” said Rachael, “but do not fear. It was but a pass­ing mad­ness--God smite those guinea fowl! I have lived the life of a nun, and it is an un­nat­ural life for a young wom­an. Yes­ter­day I learned that I have not the tem­per­ament of the schol­ar, the recluse--that is all. I should have guessed it soon­er--then I should not have been fas­ci­nat­ed by this bril­liant Scot. It was my mind that flew ea­ger­ly to com­pan­ion­ship--that was all. The hours were pleas­ant. I would not re­gret them but for the deep un­easi­ness they have caused you. To-​day I shall en­ter the world again. There are many clever and ac­com­plished young men on St. Kitts. I will meet and talk to them all. We will en­ter­tain them here. There is a ball at Gov­ern­ment House to-​night, an­oth­er at Mis­tress Ir­win's on Wednes­day week. I promise you that I will be as gay and as uni­ver­sal as a girl in her first sea­son, and this man shall see no more of me than any oth­er man.”

Her moth­er watched her keen­ly as she de­liv­ered her long tirade. Her face was deeply flushed. The arm that held the can­dle was tense, and her hair fell about her splen­did form like a cloud of light. Had Hamil­ton seen any­thing so fair in Eu­rope? What part would he play in this scheme of catholic­ity?

“You will meet this man if you go abroad,” she replied. “Bet­ter stay here and for­bid him the gates.”

“And think about him till I leap on my horse and ride to meet him? A fevered imag­ina­tion will make a god of a Tom Nod­dy. If I see him dai­ly--with oth­ers--he will seem as com­mon­place as all men.”

Mary Fawcett did not speak for some mo­ments. Then she said: “Hark ye, Rachael. I in­ter­fered once and brought such damnable mis­ery up­on you that I dare not--al­most--(she re­mem­bered her note to Dr. Hamil­ton) in­ter­fere again. This time you shall use your own judge­ment, some­thing you have taught me to re­spect. What­ev­er the re­sult, I will be to the end what I al­ways have been, the best friend you have. You are very strong. You have had an aw­ful ex­pe­ri­ence, and it has made a wom­an of thir­ty of you. You are no sil­ly lit­tle fool, rush­ing blind­ly in­to the arms of the first man whose eyes are black enough. You have been brought up to look up­on light wom­en with hor­ror. In your dark­est days you nev­er sought to con­sole your­self as weak­er wom­en do. There­fore, in spite of what I saw in both your faces yes­ter­day, I hope.”

“Yes--and give your­self no more un­easi­ness. Could _I_ look up­on the love of man with favour? Not un­less I were to be born again, and my mem­ory as dead as my body.”

“If you love, you will be born again; and if this man over­mas­ters your imag­ina­tion, your mem­ory might quite as well be dead. One of the three or four things in my life that I have to be thank­ful for is that I nev­er had to pass through that or­deal. You are far dear­er to me than I ev­er was to my­self, and if you are called up­on to go through that wretched ex­pe­ri­ence, whose con­se­quences nev­er fin­ish, and I with so lit­tle time left in which to stand by and pro­tect you--” She changed abrupt­ly. “Promise me that you will do noth­ing un­con­sid­ered, that you will not be­have like the or­di­nary Francesca--for whom I have al­ways had the most un­mit­igat­ed con­tempt. The hour. The man. The fall. The wail: 'The earth rocked, the stars fell. I knew not what I did!' You have de­lib­er­ation and judge­ment. Use them now--and do not ram­ble alone in the gorge with this hand­some Scot--for he is a fine man; I would I could de­ny it. I felt his charm, al­though he did not open his mouth.”

Rachael's eyes flashed. “Ah! did you?” she cried. “Well, but what of that? Are not our cre­oles a hand­some race, and have not all but a few been ed­ucat­ed in Eng­land? Yes, I will promise you--if you think all this is se­ri­ous enough to re­quire a promise.”

“But you care so lit­tle for the world. You would be sac­ri­fic­ing so much less than oth­er wom­en--nev­er­the­less it would make you wretched and hu­mil­iate just as much; do not for­get that. I al­most am tempt­ed to wish that you had a lighter na­ture--that you would flirt with love and brush it away, while the world was mere­ly amused at a sus­pect­ed gal­lantry. But _you_--you would love for a life­time, and you would end by liv­ing with him open­ly. There is no com­pro­mise in you.”

“Sure­ly we have be­come more se­ri­ous than an af­ter­noon's talk with an in­ter­est­ing stranger should war­rant. I am full of a sud­den long­ing for the world, and who knows but I shall be­come so wed­ded to it that I would yield it for no man? Be­sides, do I not live to make you hap­py, to re­ward as best I can your un­selfish de­vo­tion? If ev­er I could love any man more than I love you, then that love would be over­whelm­ing in­deed. But al­though I can imag­ine my­self for­get­ting the world in such a love, I can­not pic­ture you on the sac­ri­fi­cial al­tar.”