The Conqueror

V

Mary Fawcett ac­com­pa­nied the Levines to Copen­hagen, but re­turned to St. Christo­pher by a ship which left Den­mark a month lat­er, be­ing one of those wom­en who pic­ture their ter­res­tri­al af­fairs in a state of dis­so­lu­tion while de­prived of their vig­ilance. She vowed that the North had killed her rheuma­tism, and turned an ab­sent ear to Rachael's ap­peal to tar­ry un­til Levine was ready to re­turn to St. Croix. She re­mained long enough in Den­mark, how­ev­er, to see her daugh­ter pre­sent­ed at court, and in­stalled with all the mag­nif­icence that an am­bi­tious moth­er could de­sire. There was not a mis­giv­ing in her mind, for Rachael, if some­what inan­imate, could not be un­hap­py with an ux­ori­ous hus­band and the world at her feet; and al­though for some time af­ter her mar­riage she had be­haved like a naughty child caught in a trap, and been a sore tri­al to her moth­er and Mr. Levine, since her ar­rival in Copen­hagen she had de­port­ed her­self most be­com­ing­ly and in­dulged in no more tantrums. Levine had con­duct­ed him­self ad­mirably dur­ing his try­ing hon­ey­moon. Up­on his ar­rival in Copen­hagen he had lit­tered his wife's boudoir with valu­able gifts, and ex­hib­it­ed the beau­ty he had won with a pride very grat­ify­ing to his moth­er-​in-​law. In six months he was to sail for his es­tates on St. Croix, and pay an im­me­di­ate vis­it to St. Kitts, whence Mis­tress Fawcett would re­turn with her daugh­ter for a so­journ of sev­er­al months. She re­turned to her silent home the en­vy of many Is­land moth­ers.

Rachael wrote by ev­ery ship, and Mary Fawcett pon­dered over these let­ters, at first with per­plex­ity, fi­nal­ly with a deep un­easi­ness. Her daugh­ter de­scribed life in Den­mark, the court and so­ci­ety, her new gowns and jew­els, her vis­its to coun­try hous­es, the celebri­ties she met. But her let­ters were lit­er­ary and im­per­son­al, nor was there in them a trace of her old en­er­gy of mind and vi­vac­ity of spir­it. She nev­er men­tioned Levine's name, nor made an in­ti­mate al­lu­sion to her­self.

“Can she no longer love me?” thought Mary Fawcett at last and in ter­ror; “this child that I have loved more than the hus­band of my youth and all the oth­er chil­dren I have borne? It can­not be that she is un­hap­py. She would tell me so in a wild out­burst--in­deed she would have run home to me long since. Levine will nev­er con­trol her. Heav­en knows what would have hap­pened if I had not gone on that wed­ding-​jour­ney. But she set­tled down so sweet­ly, and I made sure she would have loved him by this. It is the on­ly thing to do if you have to live with one of the pests. Per­haps that is it--she has giv­en him all her love and has none left for me.” And at this she felt so lone­ly and bit­ter that she al­most ac­cept­ed Archibald Hamn when he called an hour lat­er. But in the ex­cite­ment of his risen hopes his wig fell on the floor, and she took of­fence at his yel­low and sparse­ly set­tled scalp.

There were few gleams of hu­mour left in life for Mary Fawcett. Rachael's let­ters ceased abrupt­ly. Her moth­er dared not sail for Den­mark, lest she pass the Levines on their way to St. Croix. She man­aged to ex­ist through two dis­tract­ed months, then re­ceived a note from her daugh­ter, Mrs. Mitchell.

“Rachael is Here,” it ran, “but re­fus­es to see Us. I do not know what to think. I drove over as soon as I heard of Their ar­rival. Levine re­ceived Me and was as Cour­te­ous and Pol­ished as ev­er, but Rachael had a _Headache_ and did not come out. Mary and I have been there Twice since, and with the _same_ re­sult. Levine as­sured us that he had begged her to see her Sis­ters, but that She is in a very _low_ and _melan­choly_ state, ow­ing doubt­less to her Con­di­tion. He seemed much _con­cerned_, but More, I could not help think­ing, be­cause he feared to lose an Heir than from any _love_ for my lit­tle Sis­ter. Pe­ter and Mary agree with Me, that _You had best come here_ if You can.”

Mary Fawcett, what­ev­er her foibles, had nev­er failed to spring up­right un­der the stiffest blows of her life. Ig­nor­ing her phys­ical pains, which had been ag­gra­vat­ed by the men­tal ter­rors of the last two months, and stern­ly com­mand­ing the agony in her heart to be silent, she despatched a note at once to Dr. Hamil­ton,--Archibald Hamn was in Bar­ba­dos,--ask­ing him to char­ter a schooner, if no ship were leav­ing that day for the Dan­ish Is­lands, and ac­com­pa­ny her to St. Croix. He sent her word that they could sail on the fol­low­ing morn­ing if the wind were favourable, and the black wom­en packed her box­es and car­ried them on their heads to Bas­seterre.

That evening, as Mary Fawcett was slow­ly walk­ing down the av­enue, lean­ing heav­ily on her cane, too wretched to rest or sleep, a ship fly­ing the Ger­man colours sailed past. She won­dered if it had stopped at St. Croix, then for­got it in the ter­ri­ble spec­ula­tions which her will strove to hold apart from her nerves.

Wea­ried in body, she re­turned to the house and sat by the win­dow of her room, striv­ing to com­pose her mind for sleep. She was forc­ing her­self to jot down in­struc­tions for her house­keep­er, whom she had taught to read, when she heard a chaise and a pair of gal­lop­ing hors­es en­ter the av­enue. A mo­ment lat­er, Dr. Hamil­ton's voice was roar­ing for a slave to come and hold his hors­es. Then it low­ered abrupt­ly and did not cease.

Mary Fawcett knew that Rachael had come to her, and with­out her hus­band. For a mo­ment she had a con­fused idea that the earth was rock­ing, and con­grat­ulat­ed her­self that the house was too high for a tidal wave to reach. Then Dr. Hamil­ton en­tered with Rachael in his arms and laid her on the bed. He left at once, say­ing that he would re­turn in the morn­ing. Mary Fawcett had not risen, and her chair faced the bed. Rachael lay star­ing at her moth­er un­til Mary found her voice and begged her to speak. She knew that her hunger must wait un­til she had stood at the bar and re­ceived her sen­tence.

Rachael told her moth­er the sto­ry of her mar­ried life from the day she had been left alone with John Levine,--a sto­ry of unimag­in­able hor­rors. Like many cold men to whom the plea­sures of the world are, nev­er­the­less, easy, Levine was a volup­tuary and cru­el. Had his child been safe­ly born, there would have been no mea­sure in his bru­tal­ity. Rachael had watched for her op­por­tu­ni­ty, and one night when he had been at a state func­tion in Chris­tianstadt, too se­cure in her ap­par­ent ap­athy to lock her door, she had bribed a ser­vant to drive her to Fred­erik­stadt, and board­ed the ship her maid had as­cer­tained was about to leave. She knew that he would not fol­low her, for there was one per­son on earth he feared, and that was Mary Fawcett. He would not have re­turned to St. Croix, had his in­vest­ments been less heavy; but on his es­tates he was lord, and had no mind that his moth­er-​in-​law should set foot on them while he had slaves to hold his gates.

Mary Fawcett lis­tened to the hor­rid sto­ry, at first with a sort of fran­tic won­der, for of the evil of life she had known noth­ing; then her clear mind grasped it, her sto­icism gave way, and she shrieked and raved in such agony of soul that she had no fear of hell there­after. Rachael had to rise from the bed and min­is­ter to her, and the ter­ri­fied blacks ran scream­ing about the place, be­liev­ing that their mis­tress had been cursed.

She grew calm in time, but her face was puck­ered like an old ap­ple, and her eyes had lost their bril­lian­cy for ev­er. And it was days be­fore she re­al­ized that her limbs still ached.

Rachael nev­er opened her lips on the sub­ject again. She went back to bed and clung to her moth­er and Dr. Hamil­ton un­til her child was born. Then for three months she rec­og­nized no one, and Dr. Hamil­ton, with all his skill, did not ven­ture to say whether or not her mind would live again.

The child was a boy, and as blond as its fa­ther. Mary Fawcett stood its pres­ence in the house for a month, then packed it off to St. Croix. She re­ceived a curt ac­knowl­edg­ment from Levine, and an in­ti­ma­tion that she had saved her­self much trou­ble. As for Rachael, he would have her back when he saw fit. She wrote an ap­peal to the Cap­tain-​Gen­er­al and he sent her word that the Danes would nev­er bom­bard Brim­stone Hill, and there was no oth­er way by which Levine could get her daugh­ter while one of her friends ruled the Lee­ward Caribbees.

Many thoughts flit­ted through the brain of Mary Fawcett dur­ing that long vig­il. Her mind for the first time dwelt with kind­ness, al­most with soft­ness, on the mem­ory of her hus­band. Be­side this aw­ful Dane his shad­ow was god-​like. He had been high-​mind­ed and a gen­tle­man in his worst tantrums, and there was no taint of vi­cious­ness in him. A doubt grew in her brain, grew to such dis­qui­et­ing pro­por­tions that she some­times de­sert­ed Rachael abrupt­ly and went out to fa­tigue her­self in the av­enue. Had she done wrong to leave him alone in his old age, to bear, un­di­vert­ed, the bur­den of a dis­ease whose tor­ments she now could ful­ly ap­pre­ci­ate, to die alone in that great house with on­ly his slaves to tend him? It had seemed to her when she left him that hu­man na­ture could stand no more, and that she was jus­ti­fied; but she was an old wom­an now and knew that all things can be en­dured. When that pic­ture of his des­olate last years and lone­ly death had re­morse­less­ly shaped it­self in her imag­ina­tion, and she re­al­ized that it would hang there un­til her hands were fold­ed, she suf­fered one more hour of agony and abase­ment, then caught at the sto­icism of her na­ture, ac­cept­ed her new dole, and re­turned to her daugh­ter.