by M. M. Kaye
“No need why you should bother your pretty head about such things,” said Uncle Nat infuriatingly. He had always adhered firmly to the view that women should confine their energies to what he vaguely termed “womanly pursuits’, and these apparently did not include anything outside the home. He had strongly disapproved of Hero’s mother, Harriet, and now he looked long and thoughtfully at his niece, and clearing his throat with a shade of embarrassment said carefully:
“You know, Hero, this may sound like some kind of a sermon, but it don’t do to start blaming any one nation more than another for a thing like the slave trade. Before you get your dander up you’ve got to remember we’ve all been in it. And by that I mean Mankind! Even the negroes themselves are in it—up to their necks, and I don’t mean their slave-halters either. The African tribes have preyed on each other in order to supply the traders, and made a mighty good thing out of selling their own people into slavery. Arabs, Africans and Indians, the British and the French, Dutchmen, Spaniards and Portuguese, North and South Americans—there isn’t one of ‘em can show a clean pair of hands, and it’s as well to remember that. Why, our own Thomas Jefferson, at the very time when he was speaking and writing against the slaving activities of the English, owned more than eighty slaves himself—and explained that though he hated the whole system he just couldn’t afford, for financial reasons, to free his own negroes! We’re all tarred with the same brush, and there’s a sound old saying about ‘people who live in glass houses’ that we’d do well to remember before any of us start in reaching for stones. And I guess that goes for a heap of other things besides the slave trade! One way or another, all our houses are glass.”
“I—I suppose so,” said Hero desolately. Her own had certainly been; and she spent a sleepless night brooding on Captain Frost’s horrifying revelations and Uncle Nat’s confirmation of them, and convicting herself at least of manslaughter if not actually murder. She had been unbelievably stupid and stubborn, and Clay had been right…Clay had tried to warn her and she had refused to listen to him, because she had imagined herself to be settling the destiny of the Island for its own good, when all the time she was merely being used and made a fool of by Thérèse Tissot, Cholé and Bargash, who had tricked her as easily as though she had been a conceited child. And she could not even acquit herself of behaving like one, because surely even a child should have seen through that story of the treasure chests that must not be opened.
Had Olivia known? Somehow Hero did not believe it. But the reflection that Olivia and Cressy had been equally gullible did nothing towards lessening her own agony of remorse and self-loathing, for she had thought herself so much cleverer and far more capable than either of them, and had considered Olivia Credwell to be an empty-headed, sentimental creature, and Cressy a silly child. Yet her own behaviour had been marked by a sentimental silliness that she could hardly bear to contemplate: criminal silliness! for she had done a great deal of harm. What could have possessed her to lend herself to pulling other people’s dubious chestnuts out of the fire? She should have known: she should have suspected. ‘Ye’ll have a hand in helpin’ a power o’ folk to die…’ Biddy Jason had known! All those long years ago she had known, and this is what she had meant—
“A power of folk”…How many men had died inside the walls of Marseilles and on the parched ground between the raw stumps of clove trees and coconut palms that had been hacked down to clear a field of fire for Bargash’s men? Two hundred?—three?—four? Her own part in the rising had been so trivial that her share of the responsibility must be equally small: a minute proportion of the whole. But then guilt was not a thing that could be measured out on a pair of kitchen scales or split like a hair under a microscope, and perhaps if you allowed yourself to have even a fractional share in something that resulted in the death of others, you were morally responsible for the whole. If that were so, she must shoulder the blame for everything that she had in any way helped to bring about, and the fact that she had not known what she was doing could not be held to excuse her. Ignorance of the law excuses nobody…Captain Frost had said that.
Quite suddenly, lying there in the dark, she realized that at least one of the questions she had asked herself was answered. The reason that she had thrown herself so blindly and hastily into this disastrous affair was less for the sake of sympathy for the suffering citizens of Zanzibar, than for a personal detestation of Captain Emory Frost of the Virago, It was as simple—and as humiliating—as that!
Rory Frost embodied everything that she had learned to hold in abhorrence: slavery and the white men who helped to keep the horror alive and make fortunes from the tragedy and suffering of captive negroes: dishonesty, profligacy and miscegenation: the English, who had attempted to force iniquitous laws on free-born Americans, burned the White House and fired on peaceful farmers. And as if that were not enough, he had made fun of her, lectured her and treated her with casual disrespect, had the effrontery to admit his crimes without a trace of shame or apology, and worst of all, to be a man of birth and education.
That last still seemed to Hero less forgivable than a coloured mistress and bastard children, since it stripped him of all excuses and branded him as someone who, as he himself had said, could see the better course yet deliberately follow the worst. Because all this had outraged her, she had allowed herself to embark on a personal vendetta that had blinded her to everything else and completely destroyed her sense of proportion. It was a singularly unpleasant reflection, and for the first time in her life Hero took stock of herself—and did not like what she saw.
One result of her unhappy meditations was that Clayton Mayo appeared in a far better light than at any time since the days when she had first imagined herself in love with him.
Clay had tried to warn her for her own good, but he had never reproached her, and except for the unfortunate scenes that had marked the day of her arrival, remained unfailingly considerate. He had not pressed any claims or thrust himself upon her notice, and in her present state of self-abasement he began to seem the only stable thing in an uncertain world, for he not only loved and admired her, but he would protect her from her own impetuousness, and apply balm to her wounds by making her feel cherished and adored—and safe! Though why she should suddenly desire safety she did not know. She only knew that the need was there and that Clay would satisfy it.
Whether she loved him or not was something she still could not be sure of. But then Aunt Lucy had once told her that it was quite unnecessary to be in love with the man one married, while as for feeling any passionate attachment, that was neither necessary nor desirable: respect and affection were more than sufficient, and provided those were there, love would inevitably follow. Since Aunt Lucy’s own marriage appeared successful enough, no doubt she was right. I will speak to Clay tomorrow, thought Hero.
The decision brought her an enormous sense of relief, and as daylight brightened behind the drawn window blinds and the birds began to stir and twitter in the garden, she was able to fall asleep at last.
But it had not proved as easy to speak to Clay as she had supposed, for she had slept late, and by the time she came downstairs he had already gone out and no one could be sure when he would be back: probably not until late afternoon said his mother a shade tartly, since he was engaged to lunch with Joe Lynch. Aunt Abby did not approve of Mr Lynch. She considered him wild to a fault, and did not believe that he was a good influence on dear Clay, for Joe had the reputation of being a gambler and a “gay dog’, and she deplored her son’s partiality for his company and had cherished the hope that Hero’s arrival might put an end to that connection.
“I am afraid,” explained Aunt Abby apologetically, “that Clay has to go out a great deal. Not only on business, but in order to keep in touch with the various European interests here…so necessary when one is abroad. In fact your uncle considers that social contacts are often as important as business ones—don’t you, Nathaniel?”
“One gets a lot of useful informat
ion that way,” agreed Uncle Nat mildly. “More than one gets in the way of official interviews, as like as not. You need to know what goes on in a place like this, Hero, and Clay’s been a great help to me in that way. He gets around and gets to know the folk, and they’ll often say a heap more to him than they will to me. But I’m free to own it keeps him out of the house a good deal, and I hope you don’t think he’s been deliberately neglecting you, miss. You ought to know that he’d rather be right here in this room if he had the choice!”
Hero blushed and laughed and Aunt Abby gave her husband a repressive glance and said: “I am sure Hero realizes that if Clay is not here more often it is because he has his duties to see to, and not because he prefers to be elsewhere.’ But in fact Hero was not too sorry to find that Clayton would be away that morning, for there was someone else whom she intended to speak to, and she suspected Clay would disapprove and try to stop her. His absence made her projected visit much easier, and having obtained her aunt’s permission and fobbed off Cressy, who wished to go with her, Hero sent for Sherif, and accompanied by her groom, rode over to the Tissots’ house.
Thérèse had been seated at the writing-table in her own little sitting-room, busy with her household accounts, but when Hero was announced she flung down her quill, and springing up, greeted her with exclamations of hospitable surprise. “Hero, chérie! This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. How charming of you to call. You will drink chocolate with me, no?”
“No,” replied Hero curtly.
Madame Tissot’s eyebrows rose, and then realizing from her visitor’s forbidding expression and the curtness of her refusal that this was not to be a social call, she dismissed the servant, and when the door had closed behind him said lightly: “Well, Hero? What is it that you have to tell me? Is it that something else has gone wrong?”
“You know very well what is wrong!” said Hero stonily.
“Do I? Of that I cannot be sure. But I see very clearly that you are much upset. And angry, too. So why do we not both seat ourselves, and then we can talk together calmly and sensibly? That will also be more comfortable, is it not?”
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand,” said Hero icily.
Madame Tissot cocked her head a little on one side and studied her uninvited guest for a moment or two in silence. Comprehension and a faint suggestion of malicious amusement glimmered in the observant gaze of her shrewd dark eyes, and then she shrugged and said: “As you wish. But you must forgive me if I do not, for I find that to converse upon one’s feet can be very fatiguing.”
She subsided gracefully into the nearest chair, and having arranged the artfully simple folds of her morning gown to their best advantage, linked her small, capable hands in her lap, and leaning back, looked up at her youthful visitor with an expression that, while nicely blending politeness with interest, somehow managed to convey the impression that Hero was some erring schoolgirl summoned to explain herself to the Headmistress. But Miss Hollis had confronted far more formidable opponents than Madame Tissot, and she was not in the least intimidated by the fact that Thérèse was a good deal older than her and considerably more experienced in the ways of the world. Although now that it was too late she regretted refusing that invitation to be seated, for there was no denying that it put one at a disadvantage to be standing upright when confronting an adversary who lolled at ease in a comfortably upholstered armchair. But she had no intention of allowing such a trivial circumstance to prevent her from speaking her mind: any more than the fact that she had thought herself to be a prisoner on the Virago had prevented her from speaking it to her supposed kidnapper. Captain Emory Frost! No one would ever be able to say of Hero Athena that she lacked the courage of her convictions.
“I have just found out,” she announced in measured tones, “that you not only told me a great many hes, but tricked me into helping you do something so terrible that it will be on my conscience for the rest of my life. I hope you do not intend to deny that you knew very well what was in those chests that we smuggled into Beit-el-Tani, and precisely what they were going to be used for?”
“Deny?” exclaimed Thérèse in unaffected surprise: “Why should I, when I think it arranges itself very cleverly? Is that all you wished to tell me?”
“All—?” gasped Hero, more shocked by the truth than she had been by the lies: “You call that ‘all’? How could you do such a thing?”
“I feel sure you must know that; seeing that you have discovered so much!”
“I do indeed!” retorted Hero, her temper getting the better of her. “I wouldn’t believe it at first I couldn’t! But when my uncle said I don’t understand how any woman could bring herself to tell such barefaced lies…To be so—so heartless and unprincipled and downright wicked as to—”
“Ah, bah!” interrupted Thérèse, irritated: “Your trouble. Mademoiselle, is that you do not understand anyone who does not think as you do.
You also possess a credulity quite remarkable—one sees that in the twinkling of an eye. A child could deceive you! Did I not tell you myself, on the day we first met, that it would be very easy to lie to you? Mon Dieu! and was it not true!”
Hero’s face paled with horror as she remembered that Thérèse had indeed said something of the sort, and that she had taken it as proof of the speaker’s honesty! She said in a choked whisper; “And you don’t even mind admitting it.”
“Why should I? I have nothing to be ashamed of. It is you who should be ashamed—of being so gullible!”
“And you for not knowing what shame means!” cried Hero. “You are completely brazen! You lied to all of us. Every single thing you told us was a lie, and you deliberately helped to plan and launch a rebellion that led to the death of heaven alone knows how many people…hundreds!”
“And you also, is it not so?” retorted Thérèse acidly, “—and with less reason! Me, I had a good reason. But yours. Mademoiselle, would seem to be a love of meddling with matters that do not concern you…‘Putting the finger into the pies of others.’ It is your hobby, I think.”
“Then you think wrong! To me it is a—a crusade, and I intend to do everything in my power to put an end to slavery. While you mean to see that it continues, and you don’t care how much misery and human suffering and evil is involved. You’ll lie and scheme and cheat to ensure that it does. And you call that a ‘good’ reason for your indefensible behaviour!”
“Ah, but then I, Mademoiselle, unlike you, am not a sentimentalist. I do not think with the heart as you do. I think with my head—and for my country. To me, this matter is one of politics: of policy. And me, I neither make those policies nor decide the issues. That is done in Paris, and by far wiser heads than mine—by the Government and the servants of the Government. But what they decide, I support: which is something that you, chère Hero, should sympathize with, for was it not a citizen of your own great nation who said those famous words ‘our country, right or wrong!’…and to great applause, n’est-ce pas?”
Hero said scornfully: “You really mean that, don’t you. That to you this whole cruel, murderous business was merely a matter of politics. Politics!”
“Mais certainement. What else?”
“And all those poor wretches who died at Marseilles, and the hundreds of thousands who will die and have already died because of your country’s sugar plantations, mean nothing to you? Nothing at all?”
Thérèse shrugged again and said coolly: “One has to be a realist in such matters, so I do not permit myself to lose sleep over what is a fact of life and a question of business interests. And now, if you are quite sure that there is nothing else that you wish to take me to task for…?”
“Nothing,” replied Hero, “that I know of! Though I feel sure that any person as devoid of principle and common humanity as you have shown yourself to be must have a great many sins on their conscience—if you have one, which I doubt. However, that is hardly my affair.”
“You do not know how greatly it relieves me to hear you say so, m
a chère. I had feared that there might be more!”
There was an unmistakable note of mockery in Thérèse’s purring voice and she passed the tip of her tongue over her lower lip in the manner of a cat who has been lapping stolen cream: “Then perhaps you will not mind (since I too can be curious) if I put one little question to you before you leave? Bon! It is this: why is it that you are here in Zanzibar, concerning yourself with your ‘crusade,’ when, unless I too have been deceived and lied to, there are in your own country very many planters who depend for their labour on slaves whom they import in vast numbers in slave ships—paying good prices and thus encouraging this trade that you profess to abhor? Me, I am here because my husband’s firm sends him to this island. But you, it seems, are not even betrothed to Monsieur Mayo. Yet you are here; espousing the cause of the slaves in Zanzibar rather than those who work for the owners of plantations in your own country. This I find very curious, and I would be happy if you would explain it to me.”
“I—” began Hero, and stopped: realizing in the nick of time that—Thérèse was deliberately trying to turn the tables on her by goading her into going onto the defensive: and had very nearly succeeded, for it was a hard struggle to hold back the words that were jostling for place on her tongue. But it was Madame Tissot, and not she, Hero Hollis, who was in the dock and guilty, by her own admission, of lies and trickery and actively assisting the vile traffic of slave trading. It had been a grave mistake to cross swords with such a devious and unprincipled schemer, and she should have known better than to attempt it. But at least she was not going to give Thérèse the satisfaction of hearing her defend herself against those intentionally provocative charges. She bit back the furious words that she had so nearly spoken, and pressed her lips tightly together. And immediately, as though her thoughts had been clearly printed on her face, Madame Tissot broke into malicious and obviously genuine laughter.
Hero stared at her with loathing, and then turning on her heel, swept out of the room without another word; her eyes bright with anger and her mind in a turmoil of wrath, indignation, and—it must be owned—sheer frustration. Because the worst of it was that as Uncle Nat’s niece she would have to attend a great many functions at which that despicable woman was almost bound to be present, for owing to the smallness of the Island’s Western community, all social gatherings were apt to consist of combinations of the same handful of people. And since it was clearly impossible to denounce the villainess of the piece without betraying Cressy and Olivia Credwell, not to mention gravely embarrassing her uncle and aunt, she would frequently find herself in Madame Tissot’s company, and in circumstances that would make it impossible to cut her.