He sat very quietly for quite a long while, thinking. He saw her plan. It was feasible, and need involve no risk for him. Yet, hard as he was, he did not like the idea of dooming a young white man to death. This seemed murder, and he shuddered at murder. The killing of a slave would not have appeared to him to be at all in a similar category.
‘Have you any plans?’ she asked at length.
‘I don’t like it, Annie,’ he confessed; ‘yet you must be protected. There is a man on this estate whom Rutherford has treated nastily ever since the first day he came; Rutherford kicked him, you remember, when he was going to punish Mary, and since then has shown that he has no use for him. I know he hates Rutherford, and he would stop at nothing. I expect he is planning some sort of mischief here now, but he is afraid of me. If he got his freedom and some money——’
‘He can have both. How can it be arranged?’
‘You would have to give him a receipt for a sum of money which he will say he paid you for his “free papers” a couple of weeks ago, the papers to be given to him in January next. That would be quite in order, and it would show he had arranged to buy his freedom some time ago. Afterwards, you could give him twenty pounds. That would be enough.’
‘Promise him thirty when he has—you know. And give him ten at once, with the receipt you speak of. It’s worth it. You can depend on him?’
‘I am sure I can.’ Again Ashman paused to think heavily.
He resumed. ‘Today is Monday, and Rutherford can do nothing before Wednesday, for all the offices in the Bay are closed. On Wednesday he probably will leave for the Bay; but, anyway, our man can watch him and follow him wherever he goes. Pompey has been a hunter of wild hogs for a long time,’ added Ashman grimly. ‘He is a splendid “shot”.’
A little shiver went through Annie; in a flash of imagination she pictured a malignant negro crouched behind a boulder or a clump of cane at some lonely spot by the wayside, heard a shot ring out, saw Robert pitch headlong from his horse and the slayer slinking away to refuge. No slave would track him now, none would interfere on behalf of a white man. This shot indeed might be considered their first blow for freedom, the signal that was to plunge the whole parish in blood.
She shivered, for the man fallen stricken from his horse was one whom she had loved, whom, in her mad, perverted way, she loved still. But it was his life or hers, and if he lived and Millicent lived—for she could not be sure that Millicent would die, for all her terror: if he lived and Millicent lived, he would be to this woman what he had been to her.
The thought hardened her heart.
‘I am doing everything for you, Annie,’ said John Ashman significantly as he rose to go.
‘Your reward is myself, John,’ she said with a bitter smile of self-pity, and he wondered what his ultimate recompense would be if in the future he offended her or she wearied of him.
*****
When Ashman took his departure Annie remained where she was, sitting very still, listening to voices in her brain that had begun to speak with insistent distinctness. It was as if she were a stranger that these voices spoke to; she heard them from the outside, as it were. The die was cast, they said; Robert Rutherford was doomed. He would die, for the murderer would not miss; hate as well as cupidity would nerve his arm and direct his aim. Robert would die. And what after that? She loved him, she desired him passionately; in spite of the insults he had put upon her, of the indifference he now showed for her, she wanted him. And if he died she would never see him again; death was the one irremovable obstacle in anyone’s path.
He would not act if Millicent lived, and even if the girl lived, might she, Annie, not be able to win him back again? Was that altogether impossible? Without knowing that she did so she shook her head; she could not forgive Millicent; and even were she inclined to do so, that woman’s case was beyond her intervention now. She could set agencies of harm in motion; she could not control their effect. Perhaps if she had not interfered last night there would have been a chance; now everything was beyond her power, and what was to be must be. There was still just a possibility that Millicent might recover, and Robert would not move until he knew the worst. But if the girl recovered! Annie’s whole being revolted at the ignominy of having to watch, or even to imagine, Millicent’s flaunting triumph.
She thought she might be able to endure the successful rivalry of a woman of her own class, or even of her own race; the humiliation would not then be so complete. But she knew that that test would never be offered to her in this country. The white women were few, most of them were but ordinary looking; she knew she was considered to be the most beautiful woman in all Jamaica; she had nothing to fear from any other white woman. Nearly all of them had rivals among the coloured girls, but accepted the situation and so brought about no open rupture with their husbands. But she had no legal claim on Robert, and in any circumstances could tolerate no pretender to his affections. He must be hers only. Other white women might compromise with the existing conditions and make a sacrifice for some sort of external peace. She sneered at them: such pitiful weakness moved her to contempt. What a man like Ashman did could not matter to her; if she ceased to care for anyone his actions no longer concerned her. But if she still loved him she would yield nothing to those who challenged her hold; the struggle must continue to the end.
So the die was cast; she would not countermand the orders she had given to Ashman. Indeed, he would hold her in utter contempt if she did; he would look upon her as a timorous, hesitant, lovesick fool, she whom he had always regarded as a strong, imperious, self-reliant woman. She could never submit to such a degradation. She would despise herself. She would despise herself for having allowed herself to be despised.
But the future? Again the voices in her brain asked her questions, and they were about her future. What would life hold in store for her when Robert was gone? Was she to remain here, alone with a bore who, recently, she had been able just to tolerate but no more? Was Ashman to be her master, sharing a terrible secret with her, insisting upon being her lover? That too would be a humiliation unspeakable, a long-drawn-out torture; she did not see herself enduring it; she would not.
But Ashman would be on his guard. He cared for her, yes; she knew that; he cared because he could not help it; but he distrusted her and would not fail to watch her closely. She felt she would never be able to get rid of him, save by open dismissal, and then he might try to subdue her will by threats of exposure. That was a contingency which would have to be dealt with should it ever arise; worse by far would be the having to endure this man week after week, month after month, year after year. And hating him more and more. And longing for the one great love of her life, for the man whom she herself had just sentenced to his death.
She did not think that she could live through the future without Robert. She was no longer very young, and she wanted no man save him. She had known the awful agony of a boredom almost without relief in the months before Robert’s coming; it would be much worse in the years to come, a nightmare black and hideous as hell. Think as hard as she could she saw no way of escape. She had built a prison about her. Its impalpable wall would hold her faster than could walls of iron and stone.
A faint hope flickered through her brain; she uttered it aloud, as though in answer to the voices which were painting her future in the blackest hues. Something might happen to turn the whole course of events. The hired assassin might be hindered from carrying out his design at the last moment almost. Robert might shrink, when it came to the point, from denouncing her, even though Millicent should be dead. If these things happened—and life was full of such out-of-the-ordinary incidents—all might yet be well. She could defy Ashman then. Indeed, with Robert alive and Millicent dead, he would be submissive enough.
It was this slender hope, this possibility, that she clung to for a while; but this mood soon passed. Again she was plunged into despair. She walked to the sideboard (laden with the silver which her first husband had collected with
such pride), and poured out for herself a glass of madeira, which she drank slowly. The wine heated her blood and brain; she felt stronger in will and in purpose. She had never been intoxicated in her life; but during the last year or so she had taken to wine as some sort of refuge from the ennui that had plagued her. She had no illusions about drinking. She knew that, strong-willed though she was, she might pass the limit of safety in drinking, might steadily drift into a habit of semi-intoxication, and would in her loneliness be all the more likely to do so than other women. She knew how drinking caught hold of and completely captured thousands of men, and some women too, in this country. They went to it for forgetfulness and solace. Often they found it a master and a terrible tyrant.
But there was no help for it. She must silence the doubts and the questionings in her mind, doubts and questionings the like of which had never tormented her before. She must stifle them, or her will might be weakened and she might become a very fool, not knowing what to do, not standing resolute as she had always done, and so winning her own admiration. She had set her course, had laid her plan; if she of her own will altered them now she might find herself in an awful predicament. If chance or fate chose to intervene, that she could not prevent. But of her own volition, of her own action, to act now so as to give Robert Rutherford every opportunity of bringing her to open disgrace, which would be worse than death to a woman of her spirit, and which might even send him to the arms of that daring, mulatto wretch if she happened by some miracle to recover—that would be madness on her part. Then indeed should she deserve any horror that might befall her. She cried aloud that she could face anything but that.
Deliberately she poured herself out another glass of the wine. She knew that she would not cease to turn to it for aid until this whole crisis was passed. She knew that she must not allow herself to think much about Robert, for then the poignant grief which gnawed at her heart might master her. She gazed with staring eyes into the glass she held in her hand. For the first time in her life she needed extraneous aid to steel her to her purpose.
Chapter Twenty-One—RIDER AND MILLICENT
IN the afternoon of that same day, at about five o’clock, Robert and Rider called at the house of a well-known doctor in Montego Bay and asked him to accompany them a little distance to see a girl who was dying of superstitious fear. It was not the same man whom Robert had previously asked to see Millicent. They explained the circumstances briefly, not mentioning Mrs. Palmer’s name. The girl, they said, believed she had been bewitched and was obviously in a dangerous condition. Did the doctor think he could help?
He was sceptical. He had come across such cases in his career, but he had never known much help derived from a regular practitioner. These people simply refused to eat, hardly slept; they were convinced that their death was approaching and it was almost impossible to rid their mind of the conviction. But he would go and see what could be done. That could do no harm.
So they went on to the house of Takoo’s daughter, entered the yard and saw a number of people standing about, as on the first occasion when Robert had visited the place.
It was dark by now, the early dusk of the December day had fallen and already lights were gleaming in the little house. But in spite of the obscurity the visitors observed that the people were hostile, for murmurs arose as they reined in their horses and dismounted, and no one seemed inclined to give them way.
Rider had been told of Robert’s intentions. He knew that his friend was about to do something that most men would have avoided. He did not believe it would be easy, if indeed possible, to bring home a charge of murder against Annie Palmer, and he reflected that the long wait would prevent Robert from returning home as early as he had hoped. He was going too, and he wished to go quickly; he did not wish to tarry in this country one day longer than was absolutely necessary. But Robert’s mind was made up, he was not to be argued with; he was in revolt against his weakness and vacillation of the last three weeks, he was moved to the depths, determined to do something that should redeem him in his own eyes. Rider understood all this. He acquiesced in what was said to him, even if he thought the plan rather futile.
He had been asked and had agreed to go with the young man to this place this evening, when Robert had learnt from Psyche that Millicent had again been taken there. He feared the worst.
And in Rider’s mind was a feeling that Annie Palmer, who had been told of Robert’s intentions, would not be idle in the meantime, could not afford to be. Rider felt that serious trouble was impending, trouble in which he would be a mere spectator. For beyond a very circumscribed limit he could not help at all. He had no power, no influence, no reputation even. And to warn Robert now would be worse than useless; Robert would proceed upon the path mapped out by himself in spite of all expostulation or argument.
The three white men ignored the hostile murmurings and attitude of the assembled negroes. The doctor took precedence, led the way to the door of the room which Robert indicated, rapped, and, on a woman coming to the entrance, mentioned who he was and asked if they would allow him to see the sick person.
The woman retired, returning in a few moments with Takoo. The old man, even in that obscurity, looked bowed and greatly aged. Gone was all the power and dignity with which he had seemed clothed the night before when, as the high priest of some mysterious cult, he had dominated a multitude of credulous fanatics. He now looked like an old, broken negro, with all the energy gone out of him. But at once he recognised who the gentlemen standing there were, and he quickly came out to meet them.
It was at Robert that he glanced, questioningly.
‘I have brought a doctor to see your granddaughter,’ said Robert kindly. ‘The last time, when the other doctor came, you had removed.’
‘It’s no use, massa,’ groaned the old man heavily, ‘Millie dying!’
‘You had better let me see her,’ said the doctor briskly; ‘quite possibly you are mistaken. Where is she?’
Takoo motioned to the door; the doctor passed in, leaving the rest of them standing.
Rider addressed old Takoo.
‘Last night,’ he began, ‘you tried to take off what you believe to be a ghost that is haunting Millicent—oh, yes, we know all about it: we were there though you did not see us.’
‘You there!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Then you saw de spirit that——’
‘We saw everything. And we want you and Millie to understand that it was nothing real; only something imagined...by someone else who caused you to see it. Can you follow me? That person first pictured the Bull in her mind and had power enough to make it appear to all of us also. But the thing itself wasn’t real; it was only a vision. Do you think we could get Millicent to understand that?’
‘Understand what, massa? If a woman have power to make you see such a thing, what can you do against her? And it was real. Massa, Rolling-Calf is real. And it appear just when I was taking off the sucking spirit from Millie, Mrs. Palmer’s spirit!’
Rider looked at the old man hopelessly, he spoke with such absolute certitude. Nothing could root out of his mind beliefs that were now a part of its texture. Rider made a despairing gesture.
Robert, however, resolved to see what his persuasion might effect.
‘You know Mr. Rider and I would like to save Millicent, don’t you?’ he asked Takoo.
‘Yes, Squire, but you can’t. I fail; you must fail too. And now you will have to look after yourself.’
He said nothing more, nor did they; they could only await the doctor’s verdict. Presently the doctor issued from the room. He drew the white men slightly aside. ‘It is as I feared,’ he said, ‘the girl is beyond all argument and beyond all treatment. She has had a terrible shock; her heart is failing. It was never strong, though she might have lived for years and years had nothing much occurred to distress her.’
The two men knew what this meant, yet the question came from Robert: ‘Is she dying?’
‘I don’t think she will live through the n
ight.’
Though Robert had been expecting to hear something of the sort the actual words came as though they were a blow. It seemed so horrible, this swift passing from life to death of a girl who but a few days ago seemed so free from danger and serious care. This was tragedy in one of its most awful forms, for behind it loomed the sinister figures of what anywhere would be considered as malignant and deadly witchcraft.
Takoo came up now. ‘I know what the doctor say,’ he remarked; ‘he couldn’t say different. You want to take leave of me poor child before she go, massa?’
‘Let me see her for a little while first, will you?’ suddenly said Rider, before Robert could answer. ‘She is conscious now, I gather. I had better see her; I won’t be long.’
He spoke with quiet, authoritative insistence, as one who had a right to the interview he requested. He seemed to take it for granted that he would not be refused, for he waited for no answer.
He passed into the room. The other men, almost automatically, drew nearer to it. The people in the yard came nearer also, moved by curiosity.
They heard a murmur of voices within, Rider speaking and Millicent replying weakly, and then they heard Rider alone. They caught the words, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me’; they heard other words, they knew that this man, without a church, a drunkard, one even thought to care nothing for the religion in which he had been bred and of which he had been a confessor, was striving to bring some consolation to the last moments of an unhappy fellow-creature. He was the minister of souls once more, and perhaps never so sincerely before as now. This death-bed touched his heart, every sentiment of pity in him vibrated to the appeal of a scene than which he had known none more piteous. Here was a duty, sacred, solemn, and he knelt and offered up his prayers with a sincerity of which there could be no doubt. He alone, at this moment, might soothe the tortured spirit that was so soon to leave this world.
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