The Conqueror

II

The last af­flic­tion the Fawcetts ex­pect­ed was an­oth­er child. This lit­tle girl came an un­wel­come guest to a moth­er who hat­ed the fa­ther, and to Dr. Fawcett, not on­ly be­cause he had out­grown all lik­ing for cry­ing ba­bies, but be­cause, as in his ex­cit­ed dis­tur­bance he ad­mit­ted to his wife, his for­tune was re­duced by spec­ula­tions in Lon­don, and he had no de­sire to turn to in his old age and sup­port an­oth­er child. Then Mary Fawcett made up her def­inite mind: she an­nounced her in­ten­tion to leave her hus­band while it was yet pos­si­ble to save her prop­er­ty for her­self and the child to whom she soon be­came pas­sion­ate­ly at­tached. Dr. Fawcett laughed and shut him­self up in a wing where the sounds of ba­by dis­tress could not reach him; and it is doubt­ful if his glance ev­er lin­gered on the love­ly face of his youngest born. Thus came in­to the world un­der the most painful con­di­tions one of the un­hap­pi­est wom­en that has lived. It was her splen­did des­tiny to be­come the moth­er of the great­est Amer­ican of his cen­turies, but this she died too soon to know, and she ac­com­plished her part with an im­me­di­ate bit­ter­ness of lot which was re­morse­less­ly or­dained, no doubt, by the great Law of Com­pen­sa­tion.

There were no di­vorce laws on the Is­lands in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, not even an act for sep­arate main­te­nance; but Mary Fawcett was a wom­an of re­source. It took her four years to ac­com­plish her pur­pose, but she got rid of Dr. Fawcett by mak­ing him more than anx­ious to be rid of her. The Cap­tain-​Gen­er­al, William Matthew, was her staunch friend and ad­mir­er, and es­poused her cause to the ex­tent of is­su­ing a writ of sup­pli­cav­it for a sep­arate main­te­nance. Dr. Fawcett grad­ual­ly yield­ed to pres­sure, sep­arat­ed her prop­er­ty from his, that it might pass un­der her per­son­al and ab­so­lute con­trol, and set­tled on her the sum of fifty-​three pounds, four shillings an­nu­al­ly, as a full sat­is­fac­tion for all her dow­er or third part of his es­tate.

Mis­tress Fawcett was no longer a wom­an of con­se­quence, for even her per­son­al in­come was cur­tailed by the great drought of 1737, and Nevis, com­plaisant to the gal­lantry of the age, was scan­dal­ized at the nov­el­ty of a pub­lic sep­ara­tion. But she was free, and she was the wom­an to feel that free­dom to her fin­ger tips; she could live a life with no will in it but her own, and she could bring up her lit­tle girl in an at­mo­sphere of peace and af­fec­tion. She moved to an es­tate she owned on St. Christo­pher and nev­er saw John Fawcett again. He died a few years lat­er, leav­ing his di­min­ished prop­er­ty to his chil­dren. Rachael's share was the house in Charles Town.

The spot on which Rachael spent her child­hood and brief youth was one of the most pic­turesque on the moun­tain range of St. Christo­pher. Fac­ing the sea, the house stood on a lofty em­inence, in the very shad­ow of Mount Mis­ery. Im­me­di­ate­ly be­hind the house were the high peaks of the range, hard­ly less in pride than the cone of the great vol­cano. The house was built on a ledge, but one could step from the ter­race above in­to an abrupt ravine, wrenched in­to its tor­tu­ous shape by earth­quake and flood, but dark for cen­turies with the im­mov­able shades of a vir­gin trop­ical for­est. The Great House, with its spa­cious open gal­leries and ve­ran­dahs, was sur­round­ed with stone ter­races, over­flow­ing with the in­tense red and or­ange of the hy­bis­cus and cro­ton bush, the gold­en browns and soft­er yel­lows of less am­bi­tious plants, the sen­su­ous tints of the or­chid, the high and glit­ter­ing beau­ties of the palm and co­coanut. The slopes to the coast were cov­ered with cane-​fields, their bright young greens sharp against the dark blue of the sea. The ledge on which the house was built ter­mi­nat­ed sud­den­ly in front, but ex­tend­ed on the left along a line of cliff above a chasm, un­til it sloped to the road. On this flat em­inence was an av­enue of roy­al palms, which, with the dense wood on the hill above it, was to mariners one of the most fa­mil­iar land­marks of the Is­land of “St. Kitts.” From her ve­ran­dah Mary Fawcett could see, far down to the right, a large vil­lage of ne­gro huts, on­ly the thatched African roofs vis­ible among the long leaves of the co­coanut palms with which the blacks in­vari­ably sur­round their dwellings. Be­yond was Brim­stone Hill with its im­preg­nable fortress. And on the left, far out at sea, her pur­ple heights and palm-​fringed shores deep­en­ing the exquisite blue of the Caribbean by day, a white ev­er chang­ing spir­it in the twi­light, and no more ves­tige of her un­der the stars than had she sunk whence she came--Nevis. Mary Fawcett nev­er set foot on her again, but she learned to sit and study her with a whim­si­cal af­fec­tion which was one of the few lib­er­ties she al­lowed her imag­ina­tion. But if the un­hap­pi­est years of her life had been spent there, so had her fairest. She had loved her bril­liant hus­band in her youth, and all the so­cial tri­umphs of a hand­some and for­tu­nate young wom­an had been hers. In the deep calm which now in­ter­vened be­tween the two men­tal hur­ri­canes of her life, she some­times won­dered if she had ex­ag­ger­at­ed her past af­flic­tions; and be­fore she died she knew how in­signif­icant the tragedy of her own life had been.

Al­though Rachael was born when her par­ents were past their prime, the vi­tal­ity that was in her was con­cen­trat­ed and strong. It was not enough to give her a long life, but while it last­ed she was a mag­nif­icent crea­ture, and the end was abrupt; there was no slow de­cay. Dur­ing her child­hood she lived in the open air, for ex­cept in the cold nights of a brief win­ter on­ly the jalousies were closed; and on that high shelf even the late sum­mer and ear­ly au­tumn were not in­suf­fer­able. Ex­haust­ed as the trade winds be­come, they give what lit­tle strength is in them to the heights of their favourite isles, and dur­ing the rest of the year they are so con­stant, even when storms rage in the North At­lantic, that Nevis and St. Christo­pher nev­er feel the full force of the sun, and the win­ter nights are cold.

Rachael was four years old when her par­ents sep­arat­ed, and grew to wom­an­hood re­mem­ber­ing noth­ing of her fa­ther and see­ing lit­tle of her kin, scat­tered far and wide. Her one un­mar­ried sis­ter, up­on her re­turn from Eng­land, went al­most im­me­di­ate­ly to vis­it Mrs. Lyt­ton, and mar­ried Thomas Mitchell, one of the wealth­iest planters of St. Croix. Mary Fawcett's chil­dren had not ap­proved her course, for they re­mem­bered their fa­ther as the most in­dul­gent and charm­ing of men, whose fre­quent tem­pers were quick­ly for­got­ten; and year by year she be­came more whol­ly de­vot­ed to the girl who clung to her with a pas­sion­ate and un­crit­ical af­fec­tion.

Clever and ac­com­plished her­self, and quick with am­bi­tion for her best beloved child, she em­ployed the most cul­ti­vat­ed tu­tors on the Is­land to in­struct her in En­glish, Latin, and French. Be­fore Rachael was ten years old, Mis­tress Fawcett had the sat­is­fac­tion to dis­cov­er that the lit­tle girl pos­sessed a dis­tin­guished mind, and took to hard study, and to _les graces_, as nat­ural­ly as she rode a pony over the hills or shot the reef in her boat.

For sev­er­al years the wom­en of St. Christo­pher held aloof, but many of the planters who had been guests at the Great House in Gin­ger­land called on Mis­tress Fawcett at once, and prof­fered ad­vice and ser­vice. Of these William Hamil­ton and Archibald Hamn be­came her staunch and in­ti­mate friends. Mr. Hamn's es­tate ad­joined hers, and his over­look­er re­lieved her of much care. Dr. James Hamil­ton, who had died in the year pre­ced­ing her for­mal sep­ara­tion, had been a close friend of her hus­band and her­self, and his broth­er has­tened with as­sur­ance of his wish to serve her. He was one of the em­inent men of the Is­land, a planter and a mem­ber of Coun­cil; al­so, a “doc­tor of physic.” He car­ried Rachael safe­ly through her child­hood com­plaints and the dark­est of her days; and if his was the hand which opened the gates be­tween her­self and his­to­ry, who shall say in the light of the glo­ri­fied re­sult that its mas­ter should not sleep in peace?

In time his wife called, and his chil­dren and stepchil­dren brought a new ex­pe­ri­ence in­to the life of Rachael. She had been per­mit­ted to gam­bol oc­ca­sion­al­ly with the “pic'nees” of her moth­er's maids, but since her fourth year had not spo­ken to a white child un­til lit­tle Cather­ine Hamil­ton came to vis­it her one morn­ing and brought Chris­tiana Hug­gins of Nevis. Mis­tress Hug­gins had known Mary Fawcett too well to call with Mis­tress Hamil­ton, but sent Chris­tiana as a peace of­fer­ing. Mary's first dis­po­si­tion was to pack the child off while Mis­tress Hamil­ton was of­fer­ing her em­bar­rassed ex­pla­na­tions; but Rachael clung to her new trea­sure with such shrieks of protest that her moth­er, dis­con­cert­ed by this vigour of op­po­si­tion to her will, per­mit­ted the in­trud­er to re­main.

The wives of oth­er planters fol­lowed Mis­tress Hamil­ton, for in that soft volup­tuous cli­mate, where the rush and fret of great cities are but a witch's tale, dis­ap­proval dies ear­ly. They would have called long since had they not been a tri­fle in awe of Nevis, more, per­haps, of Mis­tress Fawcett's sharp tongue, then in­do­lent. But when Mis­tress Hamil­ton sud­den­ly re­mind­ed them that they were Chris­tians, and that Dr. Fawcett was dead, they put on their Lon­don gowns, or­dered out their coach­es, and called. Mary Fawcett re­ceived them with a cour­te­ous in­dif­fer­ence. Her re­sent­ment had died long since, and they seemed to her, with their coach­es and bro­cades and pow­dered locks, but the ghosts of the Nevis of her youth. Her child, her es­tate, and her few tried friends ab­sorbed her. For the sake of her daugh­ter's fu­ture, she or­dered out her an­cient coach and made the round of the Is­land once a year. The ladies of St. Kitts were as mod­er­ate­ly punc­til­ious.

And so the life of Rachael Fawcett for six­teen years passed un­event­ful­ly enough. Her spir­its were of­ten very high, for she in­her­it­ed the Gal­lic buoy­an­cy of her fa­ther as well as the bril­liant qual­ities of his mind. In the se­ri­ous depths of her na­ture were strong pas­sions and a ten­den­cy to melan­choly, the re­sult no doubt of the un­hap­py con­di­tions of her birth. But her moth­er man­aged so to oc­cu­py her ea­ger am­bi­tious mind with hard study that the girl had lit­tle ac­quain­tance with her­self. Her En­glish stud­ies were al­most as var­ied as a boy's, and in ad­di­tion to her ac­com­plish­ments in the an­cient and mod­ern lan­guages, she paint­ed, and sang, played the harp and gui­tar. Mary Fawcett, for rea­sons of her own, nev­er let her for­get that she was the most ed­ucat­ed girl on the Is­lands.

“I nev­er was one to lie on a so­fa all day and fan my­self, while my chil­dren sat on the floor with their blacks, and munched sug­ar-​cane, or bread and sling,” she would re­mark su­per­flu­ous­ly. “All my daugh­ters are a cred­it to their hus­bands; but I mean that you shall be the most bril­liant wom­an in the An­tilles.”

The im­me­di­ate con­se­quences of Rachael's su­pe­ri­or ed­uca­tion were two: her girl friends ceased to in­ter­est her, and am­bi­tions de­vel­oped in her strong imag­ina­tive brain. In those days wom­en so rarely dis­tin­guished them­selves in­di­vid­ual­ly that it is doubt­ful if Rachael had ev­er heard of the phe­nomenon, and the sum of her world­ly as­pi­ra­tions was a wealthy and in­tel­lec­tu­al hus­band who would take her to live and to shine at for­eign courts. Her na­ture was too sweet and her mind too se­ri­ous for ego­ism or the pet­ti­er van­ities, but she hard­ly could help be­ing con­scious of the en­er­gy of her brain; and if she had passed through child­hood in ig­no­rance of her beau­ty, she bare­ly had en­tered her teens when her hap­py in­dif­fer­ence was dis­pelled; for the young planters be­sieged her gates.

Girls ma­ture very ear­ly in the trop­ics, and at four­teen Rachael Fawcett was the un­re­spon­sive toast from Bas­seterre to Sandy Point. Her height was con­sid­er­able, and she had the round sup­ple fig­ure of a girl who has lived the out-​door life in mod­er­ation; full of strength and grace, and no ex­ag­ger­ation of mus­cle. She had a fine mane of red­dish fair hair, a pair of sparkling ea­ger gray eyes which could go black with pas­sion or even ex­cit­ed in­ter­est, a long nose so sen­si­tive­ly cut that she could ex­press any mood she chose with her nos­trils, which ex­pand­ed quite alarm­ing­ly when she flew in­to a tem­per, and a full well-​cut mouth. Her skin had the white­ness and trans­paren­cy pe­cu­liar to the wom­en of St. Kitts and Nevis; her head and brow were nobly mod­elled, and the for­mer she car­ried high to the day of her death. It was set so far back on her shoul­ders and on a line so straight that it would look haughty in her cof­fin. What won­der that the young planters be­sieged her gates, that her as­pi­ra­tions soared high, that Mary Fawcett dreamed of a great des­tiny for this wor­shipped child of her old age? As for the young planters, they nev­er got be­yond the gates, for a drag­on stood there. Mis­tress Fawcett had no mind to run the risk of ear­ly en­tan­gle­ments. When Rachael was old enough she would be pro­vid­ed with a dis­tin­guished hus­band from afar, se­lect­ed by the ex­pe­ri­enced judge­ment of a wom­an of the world.

But Mary Fawcett, still hot-​head­ed and im­pul­sive in her sec­ond half-​cen­tu­ry, was more prone to err in crises than her daugh­ter. In spite of the deep­er pas­sions of her na­ture, Rachael, ex­cept when un­der the lash of strong ex­cite­ment, had a cer­tain clear­ness of in­sight and de­lib­er­ation of judge­ment which her moth­er lacked to her last day.