The Conqueror | Page 8

had not seen Rachael on the morning when he asked for her
hand, and he called two days later to press his suit and receive his
answer. Mistress Fawcett told him that she had made up her own mind
and would perform that office for Rachael at once, but thought it best
that he should absent himself until the work was complete. Levine,
promised an answer on the morrow, took himself off, and Mary
Fawcett sent for her daughter.
Rachael entered the library with a piece of needlework in her hand. Her
mind was not on her books these days, for she had gone to another ball;
but her hands had been too well brought up to idle, however her brain
might dream. Mary Fawcett by this time wore a large cap with a frill,
and her face, always determined and self-willed, was growing austere
with years and much pain: she suffered frightfully at times with
rheumatism, and her apprehension of the moment when it should attack
her heart reconciled her to the prospect of brief partings from her
daughter. Her eyes still burned with the fires of an indiminishable
courage however; she read the yellow pages of her many books as
rapidly as in her youth, and if there was a speck of dust on her
mahogany floors, polished with orange juice, she saw it. Her negroes
adored her but trembled when she raised her voice, and Rachael never
had disobeyed her. She expected some dissatisfaction, possibly a
temper, but no opposition.
Rachael smiled confidently and sat down. She wore one of the thin
white linens, which, like the other women of the Islands, she put aside
for heavier stuffs on state occasions only, and her hair had tumbled
from its high comb and fallen upon her shoulders. Mary Fawcett sighed
as she looked at her. She was too young to marry, and had it not been
for the haunting terror of leaving her alone in the world, the Dane, well
circumstanced as he was, would have been repulsed with contumely.
"Rachael," said her mother, gently, "put down your tapestry. I have
something to say to you, something of great import."
Rachael dropped her work and met her mother's eyes. They were hard

with will and definite purpose. In an instant she divined what was
coming, and stood up. Her face could not turn any whiter, but her eyes
were black at once, and her nostrils spread.
"It cannot be possible that you wish me to marry that man--Levine,"
she stammered. "I do not know how I can think of such a thing--but I
do--it seems to me I see it in your eyes."
"Yes," said her mother, with some uneasiness. "I do; and my reasons
are good--"
"I won't listen to them!" shrieked Rachael. "I won't marry him! His
whiteness makes me sick! I know he is not a good man! I feel it! I
never could be happy with him! I never could love him!"
Mary Fawcett looked at her aghast, and, for a moment, without
answering; she saw her own will asserting itself, heard it on those
piercing notes, and she knew that it sprang from stronger and more
tragic foundations than had ever existed in her own nature; but
believing herself to be right, she determined to prevail.
"What do you know about men, my darling?" she said soothingly. "You
have been dreaming romantic dreams, and young Levine does not
resemble the hero. That is all. Women readjust themselves
marvellously quick. When you are married to him, and he is your
tender and devoted husband, you will forget your prince--who, no
doubt, is dark and quite splendid. But we never meet our princes, my
dear, and romantic love is only one of the things we live for--and for
that we live but a little while. Levine is all that I could wish for you. He
is wealthy, aristocratic, and chivalrously devoted."
Her long speech had given her daughter time to cool, but Rachael
remained standing, and stared defiantly into the eyes which had relaxed
somewhat with anxious surprise.
"I feel that he is not a good man," she repeated sullenly, "and I hate him.
I should die if he touched me. I have not danced with him. His hands
are so white and soft, and his eyes never change, and his mouth

reminds me of a shark's."
"Levine is a remarkably handsome man," exclaimed Mistress Fawcett,
indignantly. "You have trained your imagination to some purpose, it
seems. Forget your poets when he comes to-morrow, and look at him
impartially. And cannot he give you all that you so much desire, my
ambitious little daughter? Do you no longer want to go to Europe? to
court? to be grande dame and converse with princes?"
"Oh, yes," said Rachael.