He knew not what to do.  All this that had happened was new to him:  it was old and gone by in England, and who could tell what further complications might have arisen?  But his anger required some vent:  he went in-doors, called for a lamp, and sat down and wrote with a hard and resolute look on his face: 

“I have received your letter.  I am not surprised.  You are a woman, and I ought to have known that a woman’s promise is of value so long as you are by her side to see that she keeps it.  You ask what reparation you can make:  I ask if there is any that you can suggest.  No:  you have done what cannot be undone.  Do you think a man would marry a woman who is in love with, or has been in love with, another man, even if he could overlook her breach of faith and the shameless thoughtlessness of her conduct?  My course is clear, at all events.  I give you back the promise that you did not know how to keep; and now you can go and ask the young man who has been making a holiday toy of you whether he will be pleased to marry you.

“RichardRoscorla.”

He sealed and addressed this letter, still with the firm, hard look about his face:  then he summoned a servant—­a tall, red-haired Irishman.  He did not hesitate for a moment:  “Look here, Sullivan:  the English mails go out to-morrow morning.  You must ride down to the post-office as hard as you can go; and if you’re a few minutes late, see Mr. Keith and give him my compliments, and ask him if he can possibly take this letter if the mails are not made up.  It is of great importance.  Quick, now!”

He watched the man go clattering down the cactus avenue until he was out of sight.  Then he turned, put the letters in his pocket, went in-doors, and again struck a small gong that did duty for a bell.  He wanted his horse brought round at once.  He was going over to Pleasant Farm:  probably he would not return that night.  He lit another cigar, and paced up and down the gravel in front of the house until the horse was brought round.

When he reached Pleasant Farm the stars were shining overhead, and the odors of the night-flowers came floating out of the forest, but inside the house there were brilliant lights and the voices of men talking.  A bachelor supper-party was going forward.  Mr. Roscorla entered, and presently was seated at the hospitable board.  They had never seen him so gay, and they had certainly never seen him so generously inclined, for Mr. Roscorla was economical in his habits.  He would have them all to dinner the next evening, and promised them such champagne as had never been sent to Kingston before.  He passed round his best cigars, he hinted something about unlimited loo, he drank pretty freely, and was altogether in a jovial humor.

“England!” he said, when some one mentioned the mother-country.  “Of one thing I am pretty certain:  England will never see me again.  No, a man lives here:  in England he waits for his death.  What life I have got before me I shall live in Jamaica:  that is my view of the question.”