The Conqueror

XI

Mary Fawcett en­cour­aged her daugh­ter's so­cial ac­tiv­ity, and as Hamil­ton's name en­tered the rapid ac­counts of rev­els and routs in the most ca­su­al man­ner, she en­deav­oured to per­suade her­self that the mad­ness had passed with a lan­guid af­ter­noon. She was a wom­an of the world, but the one ex­pe­ri­ence that de­vel­ops deep­est in­sight had passed her by, and there were shades and moods of the mas­ter pas­sion over which her sharp eyes roved with­out a shock.

As she was too fee­ble to sit up af­ter nine o'clock, she re­fused to open her doors for the crab hunt, but gave Rachael the key of a lit­tle vil­la on the crest of a peak be­hind the house, and told her to keep her friends all night if she chose.

This pavil­ion, de­signed for the hot­ter weeks of the hur­ri­cane sea­son, but sel­dom used by the Fawcetts, was a small stone build­ing, with two bed­rooms and a liv­ing room, a swim­ming bath, and sev­er­al huts for ser­vants. The out­build­ings were di­lap­idat­ed, but the house af­ter an air­ing and scrub­bing was as fit for en­ter­tain­ment as any on St. Kitts. The fur­ni­ture in the Trop­ics is of cane, and there are no car­pets or hang­ings to in­vite de­struc­tion. Even the mat­tress­es are of­ten but plait­ed thongs of leather, cov­ered with strong linen, and stretched un­til they are hard as wood. All Mary Fawcett's fur­ni­ture was of ma­hogany, the on­ly wood im­per­vi­ous to the bor­ing of the West In­di­an worm. This tiny house on the moun­tain need­ed but a day's work to clean it, and an­oth­er to trans­form it in­to an ar­bour of the for­est. The walls of the rooms were cov­ered with ferns, or­chids, and cro­ton leaves. Gold and sil­ver can­de­labra had been car­ried up from the house, and they would hold half a hun­dred can­dles.

All day the strong black wom­en climbed the gorge and hill, their hips swing­ing, bas­kets of wine, trays of del­icate ed­ibles, pyra­mids of linen, bal­anced as light­ly on their heads as were they no more in weight and size than the tur­ban be­neath; their arms hang­ing, their soft voic­es scold­ing the “pic'nees” who stum­bled af­ter them.

To­ward evening, Rachael and Kit­ty Hamil­ton walked down the moun­tain to­geth­er, and lin­gered in the heavy beau­ty of the gorge. The ferns grew high above their heads, and palms of many shapes. The dark ma­chi­neel with its dead­ly fruit, the trail­ing vines on the tamarind trees, the mon­keys leap­ing, chat­ter­ing with ter­ror, through flam­ing hy­bis­cus and mass­es of or­chid, the white vol­canic rock, the long torn leaves of the ba­nana tree, the abrupt de­clines, crim­son with wild straw­ber­ries, the loud boom of the sun­set gun from Brim­stone Hill--Rachael nev­er for­got a de­tail of that last walk with her old friend. Hers was not the na­ture for in­ti­mate friend­ships, but Cather­ine Hamil­ton had been one of her first re­mem­bered play­mates, her brides­maid, and had has­tened to com­pan­ion her when she emerged from the dark­ness of her mar­ried life. But Cather­ine was an aus­tere girl, of no great men­tal live­li­ness, and the friend­ship, al­though sin­cere, was not root­ed in the sym­pa­thies and af­fec­tions. She be­lieved Rachael to be the most re­mark­able wom­an in the world, and had nev­er dared to con­tra­dict her, al­though she low­ered her fine head to no one else. But fe­male virtue, as they ex­pressed it in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, stood high­er in her es­ti­ma­tion than all the gifts of mind and soul which had been lav­ished up­on Rachael Levine, and she was the first to desert her when the fi­nal step was tak­en. But on this evening there was no bar­ri­er, and she talked of her fu­ture with the man she was to mar­ry. She was hap­py and some­what sen­ti­men­tal. Rachael sighed and set her lips. All her girl­hood friends were ei­ther mar­ried or about to be--ex­cept Chris­tiana, who had not a care in her lit­tle world. Why were sor­row and dis­grace for her alone? What have I done, she thought, that I seem to be ac­cursed? I have wronged no one, and I am more gift­ed than any of these friends of mine. Not one of them has stud­ied so severe­ly, and learned as much as I. Not one of them can com­mand the homage of such men as I. And yet I alone am sin­gled out, first, for the most hideous fate which can at­tack a wom­an, then to live apart from all good men and wom­en with a man I can­not mar­ry, and who may break my heart. I wish that I had not been born, and I would not be dead for all the peace that is in the most silent depths of the Uni­verse.

At ten o'clock, that night, the hills were red with the torch­es of as gay a com­pa­ny as ev­er had as­sem­bled on the Is­land. The Gov­er­nor and Dr. Hamil­ton were keen sports­men, and noth­ing de­light­ed them more than to chase in­fu­ri­at­ed land-​crabs down the side of a moun­tain. There were some twen­ty men in the par­ty, and most of them fol­lowed their dis­tin­guished el­ders through brush and rocky pass­es. Oc­ca­sion­al­ly, a sud­den yell of pain min­gled with the shouts of mirth, for land-​crabs have their meth­ods of re­venge. The three or four girls whom Rachael had in­duced to at­tend this mas­cu­line frol­ic, kept to the high refuge of the vil­la, at­tend­ed by cav­aliers who dared not hint that maid­en charms were less than land-​crabs.

Hamil­ton and Rachael sat on the steps of the ter­race, or paced up and down, watch­ing the scene. Just be­yond their crest was the frown­ing mass of Mount Mis­ery. The crys­tal flood poured down from above, and the moon was ris­ing over the dis­tant hills. The sea had the look of in­fin­ity. There might be ships at an­chor be­fore Bas­seterre or Sandy Point, but the shoul­ders of the moun­tain hid them; and be­low, the world looked as if the pas­sions of Hell had let loose--the torch­es flared and crack­led, and the trees took on hideous shapes. Once a bat­tal­ion of the pale ven­omous-​look­ing crabs rat­tled across the ter­race, and Rachael, who was mas­cu­line in naught but her in­tel­lect, screamed and flung her­self in­to Hamil­ton's arms. A mo­ment lat­er she laughed, but their con­ver­sa­tion ceased then to be im­per­son­al. It may be said here, that if Hamil­ton failed in oth­er walks of life, it was not from want of res­olu­tion where wom­en were con­cerned. And he was tired of phi­lan­der­ing.

The hunters re­turned, slaves car­ry­ing the slaugh­tered crabs in bas­kets. There were many hands to shell the vic­tims, and in less than half an hour Mary Fawcett's cook sent in a huge and steam­ing dish. Then there were mulled wines and port, cher­ry brandy and liqueurs to re­fresh the weary, and sweets for the wom­en. A live­li­er par­ty nev­er sat down to ta­ble; and Hamil­ton, who was placed be­tween two chat­ter­ing girls, was a man of the world, young as he was, and be­trayed nei­ther im­pa­tience nor en­nui. Rachael sat at the head of the ta­ble, be­tween the Gov­er­nor and Dr. Hamil­ton. Her face, usu­al­ly as white as porce­lain, was pink in the cheeks; her eyes sparkled, her nos­trils flut­tered with tri­umph. She looked so ex­ul­tant that more than one won­dered if she were in­tox­icat­ed with her own beau­ty; but Dr. Hamil­ton un­der­stood, and his sup­per lost its rel­ish. Some time since he had con­clud­ed that where Mary Fawcett failed he could not hope to suc­ceed, but he had done his du­ty and lec­tured his cousin. He un­der­stood hu­man na­ture from its heights to its dregs, how­ev­er, and promised Hamil­ton his un­al­tered friend­ship, even while in the flood of re­mon­strance. He was a philoso­pher, who in­vari­ably held out his hand to the In­evitable, with a shrug of his shoul­ders, but he loved Rachael, and wished that the ship that brought Levine to the Is­lands had en­coun­tered a hur­ri­cane.

The guests start­ed for home at one o'clock, few tak­ing the same path. The tired slaves went down to their huts. Rachael re­mained on the moun­tain, and Hamil­ton re­turned to her.