The next day Levine, strong in the possession of a letter from Mr. Peter Lytton,—­for a fortnight forgotten,—­presented himself at Mistress Fawcett’s door, and was admitted.  The first call was brief and perfunctory, but he came the next day and the next.  Rachael, surprised, but little interested, and longing for her next ball, strummed the harp at her mother’s command and received his compliments with indifference.  A week after his first call Mary Fawcett drove into town and spent an hour with the Governor.  He told her that Levine had brought him a personal letter from the Governor of St. Croix, and that he was wealthy and well born.  He was also, in his Excellency’s opinion, a distinguished match even for the most beautiful and accomplished girl on the Island.  Peter Lytton had mentioned in his letter that Levine purposed buying an estate on St. Croix and settling down to the life of a planter.  On the following day Levine told her that already he was half a West Indian, so fascinated was he with the life and the climate, but that if she would favour his suit he would take Rachael to Copenhagen as often as she wished for the life of the world.

Mary Fawcett made up her mind that he should marry Rachael, and it seemed to her that no mother had ever come to a wiser decision.  Her health was failing, and it was her passionate wish not only to leave her child encircled by the protection of a devoted husband, but to realize the high ambitions she had cherished from the hour she foresaw that Rachael was to be an exceptional woman.

Levine 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.