‘They don’t matter,’ she said indifferently; ‘we are practically alone here. They don’t count; they have no feelings.’
There was supreme if unconscious contempt in her voice, in her look. The people about might have been sticks and stones so far as they affected her.
‘It is very dull here,’ she went on. ‘I am glad you came. How does Ashman treat you?’
‘He hasn’t had time to treat me well or ill as yet: I have hardly had anything to do with him.’
‘He will treat you properly; he must. You needn’t be afraid of him.’
‘Him?’ queried Robert. ‘I never had the slightest intention of fearing him. Why should I?’
‘Others have feared him,’ said Annie Palmer with a slight smile; ‘he is a passionate man with a strong will.’
‘But what has that got to do with me, Mrs. Palmer?’
‘Nothing—maybe. And yet it may have. But don’t worry about him; you won’t really be under him. I reside on this estate and at Palmyra—that is the estate behind this one—over the hills’: she pointed southwards. ‘I understand all about this planting business. You say you want to learn it? Well, you had better learn it directly under me, and then you will have very little to do with Ashman. What do you say to me for your “busha”?’
‘It would be impossible for me to have a more charming one,’ he cried, falling in with her mood, intoxicated with her beauty and her evident liking for him, flinging to the winds every shred of prudence that might have suggested a circumspect attitude in such strange and original circumstances. The West Indian ethos was already affecting him. He felt at once inclined to live gaily, riotously, dangerously today and let the morrow take care of itself.
‘Or a more competent one,’ she added, with peculiar intonation and laugh. ‘Lord! how bored have I been for a long time. Not a soul worthwhile to talk to for weeks and months. A drear, drab existence—dull as hell! Don’t be shocked; I spoke literally, not blasphemously. Hell must be a place of utter boredom, which is the worst torture a soul can have. Torment from flogging or burning could not be so dreadful. To be bored day after day, no change, no respite, only the perpetual repetition of the same thing until even madness would be welcome: that is the worst misery that a man or a woman could have. And I have had something of that misery for some time here. Only last night I felt that it would be a positive relief to me to see the Rosehall Great House in flames. I actually felt that!’
‘A dangerous feeling, Mrs.—Annie. Don’t you know that Nero burnt Rome down because he wished to see what a great conflagration was like? Perhaps Nero was bored, too.’
‘Very likely. But of course I wouldn’t burn my house; I haven’t many palaces as Nero had. And then I think my boredom is over now. I came out here this morning to see some malcontent slaves punished and I found—you.’
‘If I can amuse you, I am sure I shall be glad.’
‘Your friendship can make life very different for me,’ she answered softly. ‘You will come up to the Great House to dinner tonight?’
‘I promised Burbridge that we should dine together tonight,’ he hesitated.
‘He won’t hold you to that promise, I am sure,’ she said dryly. ‘I suppose he has been talking to you a lot about me? Old hands always talk about the proprietors to new-comers, you know,’ she went on, as if in explanation of her question.
‘No; he has said nothing.’
She was piercing him with her eyes as he answered; she seemed convinced that he was speaking the truth.
‘At half-past seven this evening, then,’ she said; ‘till then, good-bye.’
With eyes aglow with admiration, which had grown and deepened as they had conversed, and which she had seen with intensifying gratification, he watched her go. He saw her halt at the boiling-house and send a message to someone in it. Presently Burbridge came out, hat in hand, and she talked to him for a while. Then she turned, gaily waved her whip in Robert’s direction, and cantered off towards the Great House. Burbridge waited until she reached it, then slowly came over to Robert. His manner was diffident, troubled. He spoke with constraint.
‘Mrs. Palmer says she has asked you up to dinner; you can knock off at five o’clock if you wish, Mr. Rutherford.’
‘Mr. Rutherford! Burbridge, what the devil is the matter with you?’ asked the young man.
‘I meant nothing, Rutherford; I wish you luck.’
‘Go on—you have something else to say.’
‘No-o. I don’t think so. I’ll see you this afternoon at our diggings.’
‘Now what’s the matter with Burbridge?’ thought Robert, who had not observed the searching glance with which the other man had scanned his face. Burbridge had seen in the exaltation in Robert’s countenance, had heard in the new vibration of his voice, all that he wished to know. ‘He’s fallen in love with her at sight,’ thought Burbridge. ‘Well, he is not singular; but I like him. Let’s hope for the best.’
And Robert: everything had changed for him in that last half-hour. She liked him; every word she had said, every look she had given him, was eloquent of that. Why, they had almost been making love to one another in the sight of all men, in the midst of open fields, and she had spoken of Ashman as one who might be dangerous. Did Ashman love her? That was very likely; very likely too that Burbridge did. Any man would; she was so extraordinarily lovely, so fascinating. Not an hour ago he had been regretting that he had come to Rosehall, now there was no place that he would exchange for it. What eyes she had, what wonderful eyes! And what lips. And she was lonely here and bored; and he was lonely too, and would be bored but for her. He was only a bookkeeper? Tut, that was nonsense; he was a West Indian proprietor like herself, or would be some day; meanwhile his worldly fortunes were quite respectable. He could meet her as an equal; she had understood that from the first. She had known him for what he was. Burbridge wished him luck; well, he was very lucky. He could not have imagined, much less expected, this amazing good fortune, this swift transformation of his entire outlook.
He noticed just then that some women in the cane piece had almost entirely ceased work and were staring at him with What he regarded as a curious, impertinent air. He turned to them sternly and ordered them to resume their task. One laughed a little but they all became busy; yet he could see that they threw glances at him as they toiled, and talked amongst themselves, about him obviously. He was still young enough to blush at this, for he felt that it might be about the mistress and himself that all the slaves on the estate would soon be talking. Some of them had heard what had been said. Did they fully understand? Annie said that they had no feelings, spoke of them as if they did not matter. And indeed they did not matter; what they might think could have not the slightest sort of significance. Tonight he would be with her, see her face again, hear her wonderful voice. He had never seen eyes like hers before, eyes that seemed to draw and persuade and subdue you, eyes that commanded, eyes that looked into your very soul.
The long mournful howl of a conchshell{3} sounded just then, and the slaves threw down their implements of labour and hastened to their midday meal. Many of them, squatting on the ground, drew out of bundles they had with them cold plantains and roasted yams, with a flavouring of salt herring, and began to munch these edibles with hearty appetite. Some hastily built a fire to the leeward of the cane pieces and proceeded to cook some raw food. They were now chattering freely. The punishment which some of them had witnessed in the forenoon did not affect their appreciation of this moment, and Robert, as he rode on to his room, reflected that they could not really be unhappy if they could take life like this, so boisterously and with so much laughter. They were not treated badly; his judgment had been far too hasty. Annie had to be firm, but she was as kind as she was beautiful. He had no doubt of that.
He reached the bookkeepers’ quarters and ran in for a snack. He found Psyche all excitement, portentous with importance. She bustled about, explained that Mr. Burbridge was having his lunch in the boiling-hous
e that day, placed the meal on the table in the middle apartment, the said:
‘Millie come, massa.’
‘Millie?’ Robert was at a loss to understand her.
‘Yes, me cousin; I bring her fo’ you to look at her.’
‘Oh; but—well, I do want someone to do my share of the work here; but Millie doesn’t belong to this estate, I think you said.’
‘No, massa, but dat don’t make no difference, Millie! ‘
Out of Burbridge’s room stepped the lady of that name. A tall girl of about twenty, of golden-brown complexion and long, slightly frizzed hair, Millie was much better-looking than her cousin, better clothed, and had an air which the other completely lacked. At a glance Robert noticed that her feet were shod, an unusual occurrence among girls who lived outside of the town of Montego Bay, and not common even there. Millie wore white, which was spotless; her straight nose and gleaming eyes were attractive; she carried herself with self-consciousness as a girl who had known admiration and had learned to estimate her charms at a high value.
‘Good morning, Squire.’
Robert noticed that she did not say ‘massa.’
‘So you are Millie, eh?’ he replied. ‘But how did you get here so soon? You don’t live on this estate?’
‘No, Squire; but I come here nearly every day, an’ me cousin tell me that you—you want to see me. I was here yesterday too, an’ I saw when you ride in. So I know you already, Squire.’
‘And you want a job to look after my part of this house?’
‘I think I could look after you well, Squire.’
‘I don’t need looking after, Millie; but the place does. I am told that I can be supplied with a servant here, but perhaps you would do much better.’
‘A servant?’ asked Millie. Her face was troubled, disappointment plainly expressed in it.
‘A housekeeper,’ corrected Psyche.
‘A housekeeper?’ echoed Millicent. ‘You like me, Squire?’
‘Of course I do; you seem quite a nice, tidy girl, but liking has hardly anything to do with our arrangement, has it? You are a free girl, aren’t you? How much wages do you expect?’
‘We don’t need to talk ‘bout wages now,’ said Millicent hastily. ‘I can read and write, an’ I saw you yesterday, Squire, an’ like you.’ She paused, not wishing to say much in the presence of a third party, and without definite encouragement from the squire.
She glanced at Psyche, who had sense enough to perceive that Millicent wished her away for a while. So Psyche went outside, to get something, she said, and Millie stood with down-cast eyes waiting to hear what the squire would decide.
‘You can have the job if you like,’ said Robert indifferently. ‘You will come every morning?’
‘Don’t I am to sleep here?’
‘Where? There is no place that I can see.’
‘Then you don’t like me, Squire?’
‘What do you mean, my good girl? Must one have a personal liking for every dependent? Of course I like you! Are you satisfied?’
‘But, but—but if I am not to live here, Squire, where am I to live?’
‘I can’t solve that problem for you, Millie; you had better think it out for yourself. Did you expect to live here?’
‘Yes, if you like me an’ I am your housekeeper. You would be my husband, don’t you understan’?’
‘By Jove!’ cried Robert, startled, but amused. ‘I get your point of view now! But I didn’t tell Psyche that, though it seems to be the custom here.’
‘I am sorry,’ sighed Millicent, with a full flash of her eyes at the handsome face of the young man who she proposed should be her ‘husband.’ ‘Psyche didn’t tell me everything. An’, as I tell you, I saw you yesterday, an’ I like you when I see you. A lot of the young bushas on these estates want me, you know, but I don’t have nothing to do with them. You are different.’
‘You are very kind to say so, Millie,’ answered Robert, feeling somewhat embarrassed, yet flattered nevertheless, ‘but there has been a misunderstanding. You won’t take the job of looking after my room and my meals, then?’
The girl thought for a moment. She came to a decision.
‘Yes, I will take it. I can wash and sew and cook, an’ I can read and write.’
‘Your qualifications are excellent,’ smiled Robert, who was too happy himself not to wish to make others happy also. ‘As your cousin would say, you are very virtuous.’
‘Yes, I am virtuous,’ agreed Millie gravely, ‘an’ you will find me so if——’
‘Sufficient unto the day is the virtue thereof,’ interrupted the young man quickly. ‘Well, you can take charge whenever you like.’
‘All right, Squire, an’ I will sleep in this room,’ said Millie decisively, indicating the middle apartment.
Chapter Five—THE GREAT HOUSE
THE finest private residence in Jamaica, the Great House of Rosehall loomed huge and imposing in the gloom of the early December evening. It stood three stories high, broad flights of hewn stone steps leading up to a wide portico from which one entered the living-rooms situated on the second floor. A boy was waiting for the expected visitor; Robert threw him his reins, quickly ascended the steps and found himself facing a magnificent pair of folding doors, four inches thick and of solid mahogany, which hung on great brass hinges and opened into a spacious and lofty reception-room dimly lighted now by a pair of silver candelabra. There was an instant suggestion of wealth about this room, even of magnificence. But what caught and held his eyes was the figure of the mistress of Rosehall, who stood by a table placed near the doors; as he entered she moved forward to meet him with eager, outstretched hand, and now, for the first time, he noticed how small she was.
She had looked a bigger woman when he had seen her on horseback that afternoon, clothed in her riding habit. Perhaps, because of his own splendid height, she seemed to him smaller than she actually was. But all the stronger because of her slimness and the apparent fragility of her form was the appeal she made to him; robed all in white, with throat and bosom exposed, she was daintily graceful in spite of the spreading crinoline which, in accordance with the fashion of the times, she wore. His heart pounded rapidly as he took her hand in his and felt the soft, unmistakable pressure of her fingers and heard her words of welcome.
He had changed from his working suit. Psyche had been put to work that afternoon and had ironed out his things, which had been sent from Montego Bay the day before. He was dressed now as though he had been bidden to a banquet; she noted this at once, and was pleased by his obvious desire to appear at his best in her sight.
‘Sit here,’ she said, pointing to a massive horsehair sofa, ‘dinner will shortly be served.’
The sofa was to the right of the room, among the shadows; he placed himself by her side and she began to talk quickly, almost feverishly, as one labouring under some great suppressed excitement.
‘This is where I live, where I have lived for many years,’ she said, ‘and I am all alone in this huge place; not a very cheerful life, is it?’
‘I wonder why you do it,’ he replied; ‘Montego Bay is not far; there would be company there, society for you. And of course there is Spanish Town and Kingston.’
‘All nearly as dull as is Rosehall or Palmyra,’ she asserted. ‘You don’t know them. And the people—horrible! They are narrow, fussy, inquisitive, full of envy and bitterness, always talking about one another, and nothing good to say. Wait till you know them!’
‘Then you prefer to live alone, hiding your beauty here?’ he asked, though wondering at his audacity.
‘Do you think I am so beautiful, then?’
‘You know you are!’
‘Thanks. You do say pretty things. Of course,’ she hesitated a moment, then went on, ‘I haven’t always lived at Rosehall, and I haven’t always lived here alone. My husbands——’
‘Husbands?’
‘Yes; I have been more than once married; I want to tell you about that. I want to
tell you before anyone else does. You see, I believe we are going to be great friends, and I have no friends to speak of—none in fact. And I should like you to know how unfortunate and unhappy I have been. I have been married three times, Robert.’
‘Three times!’ He could not for his life have avoided the exclamation. It had been uttered before he was well aware of it.
‘Yes, three times. And they are dead; my first husband died of apoplexy, the second one went mad, tried to stab me and actually succeeded, and then stabbed himself. The last one—he was my first husband’s nephew—died of drink, and yet people in Montego Bay seem to think that I was responsible for his end! How could I prevent anyone from drinking himself to death? Do I look strong enough to keep the bottle from a determined man?’ He knew that she smiled as she asked this question, though her face was not distinctly visible in the dim candle light.
‘Not exactly,’ he answered smiling also. ‘But you have been unlucky above the lot of women. And yet you don’t look as if you have been married more than once. You are so young!’
‘But I was married first at eighteen, and my husband lived only until I was twenty-one. The other two married me for my properties, I think; and the one who went mad died less than two years after I became his wife.’
‘I don’t think anyone could: marry you thinking of anything but yourself,’ he protested. ‘What are your properties compared to yourself?’
‘You say that,’ she replied, ‘but you are different; I can see that. I have been a widow now for three years, and I made up my mind never to marry again, to have nothing more to do with men: I had had enough or them, you understand. The one who was a drunkard used to beat me; he would strike me cruelly sometimes, and I could go to no one for protection. It was an awful life. After his death I resolved to shut myself up in my estates, this one, and Palmyra behind. I have not been to Montego Bay for two years.’
‘What an existence!’
‘You may well say so. Even during the day I rarely move about on the estates, though now and then, like today, I have to make an inspection. I had to be present at that flogging you witnessed: I hated to be there, though I could not show it, for weakness would be fatal in dealing with slaves. But I had to be present, for they would have been treated far more harshly than they were had I not been. That was why I was there.’
The White Witch of Rosehall Page 4