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A crown of shame (vol. 1 of 3) | Project Gutenberg
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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75274 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<h1>A CROWN OF SHAME.</h1>
<p class="ph1">VOL. I.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page.jpg" alt="title page"></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="titlepage">
<p class="ph2">A CROWN OF SHAME.</p>
<p><span class="xlarge"><i>A NOVEL.</i></span></p>
<p>BY<br>
<span class="large">FLORENCE MARRYAT,</span><br>
<small>AUTHOR OF<br>
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’<br>
ETC. ETC.</small></p>
<p><i>IN THREE VOLUMES.</i><br>
<br>
VOL. I.</p>
<p>LONDON:<br>
<span class="large">F. V. WHITE & CO.,</span><br>
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.</p>
<hr class="tiny">
<p>1888.</p>
<p>[<i>All rights reserved.</i>]</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">EDINBURGH<br>
COLSTON AND COMPANY<br>
PRINTERS</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_toc.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak"><i>CONTENTS.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/decoline.jpg" alt=""></div>
<table>
<tr><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER I.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER II.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_29"> 29</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER III.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56"> 56</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER IV.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_83"> 83</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER V.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110"> 110</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER VI.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_139"> 139</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER VII.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_166"> 166</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>CHAPTER VIII.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204"> 204</a></td></tr>
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<p class="ph2">A CROWN OF SHAME.</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i001a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<p class="ph2">A CROWN OF SHAME.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/decoline.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i001b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="I">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">I</span>T was the close of the hot
season in San Diego, and the
thunderous clouds that hung
over the island rendered the atmosphere
still more oppressive. Liz, the Doctor’s
daughter, stood at the open door of their
leaf-thatched bungalow, gazing out into
the starless night, and wondering when
the rain would come, to relieve the intense<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span>
heat and disseminate the sickness that was
so rapidly thinning the population. The
stillness was so unbroken that one might
almost be said to feel it. Not a breath
of air stirred the light feathery branches
of the bamboo, not even the chirp of a
solitary insect could be distinguished from
their covert in the long grass, nor a note
from the songsters that crowded the surrounding
woods. The trailing creepers
that hung like a gorgeous eastern canopy
of crimson and purple and orange from
the roof of the verandah, brushed their
blossoms against her face, as she thrust
it into the night, but they brought no
sense of refreshment with them. Liz
felt stifled for want of air, as she
withdrew from the verandah, and re-entered
the bungalow, with a deep-drawn
sigh. But the sigh was for others.
She was not a woman to make otherwise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span>
than lightly of her own pain or
inconvenience. To witness suffering or
distress, and be unable to relieve it,
that was the great drawback of life
to Elizabeth Fellows. She was not a
girl, and the existence she led had
tended to make her older than her
age. She was five-and-twenty, and
ever since she was a little child she
had been motherless, and brought up
to depend upon herself, and to minister
to others rather than be ministered to.
Her father, Dr Fellows, was generally
considered to be a reserved, morose, and
rather disagreeable man: but Liz knew
otherwise. She was his only child, and
ever since she could remember they
two had lived together, and alone, and
he had been both mother and father
to her. He was not lively and talkative,
even to Liz—but she had always felt that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span>
he was unhappy, though something in his
manner had forbidden her inquiring the
cause of his reticence and melancholy. But
he had never said an unkind word to her.
Gravely and affectionately he had brought
his daughter up to help him in his work,
and Liz, who possessed an active, clever
brain and a large amount of courage, had
taken an immense interest in the science
of medicine and surgery, and knew almost
as much about it as himself. Dr Fellows
left all the simple cases in his daughter’s
hands, and for a long time past she had
been almost worshipped amongst the negro
population of San Diego, as a species of
white angel who came to their women
and their children with healing in her
hands. And both the Doctor and his
daughter had had plenty of work to
do during the last few months. Fever
was reigning paramount in San Diego.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>
Both Europeans and natives had been
falling around them like rotten sheep;
and with the epidemic had come a murrain
on the rice-fields and sugar-cane plantations,
so that the people had to contend
with starvation as well as disease; and
awful rumours of mutiny and insurrection
had commenced to make the residents
and planters feel alarmed. Inside the
Doctor’s cottage were grouped some score
of negresses, most of them with infants
in their arms. Their work was over for
the day, and this was the hour when
they came to Liz to have their bottles
refilled with medicines, and to show her
what progress their wailing little ones
had made.</p>
<p>As she stepped back amongst them, her
face assumed an expression of pity and
sympathy for their distress, that did indeed
make her look like an angel of goodness.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>
She was not a beautiful woman—far
from it—but it is not, as a rule, the
most beautiful faces that are the most
comforting to look upon in a time of difficulty
or danger.</p>
<p>Liz had a tall, well-developed figure,
which her plain print dress showed off
to perfection. Her skin was clear, and
soft, and white, and her abundant fair
hair was tucked smoothly away behind
her ears, and twisted into a knot at
the back of her head. Her grey eyes
beamed with a tender, kindly light, that
had no power to conceal her feelings,
and her firm, well-shaped mouth showed
firmness and decision. In fact, she was
a typical English woman, with rather a
majestic bearing about her, as if she
knew her power and rejoiced in it. But,
above all, she was a woman to love
and trust in,—one who would never tell<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>
a lie nor betray a friend, and yet who,
once convinced that her own trust had
been betrayed, would stamp the image
of the offender from her heart, if she
died under the process. As the negresses
caught sight of her again, they were
startled to see the tears upon her
cheeks, hardly believing they were shed
for them.</p>
<p>‘Missy feeling ill?’ ‘Missy like a
little wine?’ ‘I go calling Massa to see
Missy?’</p>
<p>‘No! No! What are you talking
about? I am as well as possible!’ cried
Liz, hastily brushing her tears away. ‘I
was only thinking.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, Missy,’ said one poor mother, regarding
an attenuated morsel of humanity
which lay just breathing and no more
across her lap, ‘I thinkin’ my little
Sambo never run about again!’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>‘Don’t lose heart, Chrissie,’ replied Liz,
in her grave, sweet voice, as she knelt
down and laid her hand on the baby’s
forehead. ‘He is very weak, poor little
fellow, but so long as he can eat, there is
hope for him. I will change his medicine,
and perhaps we shall have the rain by
to-morrow. A few cool nights would
set him up again.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! Missy very good to say so, but
we shall have plenty more weeks hot
weather yet. Poor little Sambo under
ground before the rain sets in.’</p>
<p>‘And my poor girl can’t stand no ways!’
cried another; ‘and Rosa’s boy die this
afternoon.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, what can I do—what can I do
for you all?’ exclaimed Liz, with her
hands to her head.</p>
<p>At this moment, the group in the Doctor’s
bungalow was augmented by a fresh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>
arrival. This was Rosa, the yellow girl,
who rushed in like a whirlwind, with her
dead child in her arms. Liz had taken an
interest in this girl, but it was one which
Rosa strongly resented. Her child was
born out of wedlock, and the gentle remonstrances
on her conduct which the
Doctor’s daughter had urged upon her, had
been taken by the uneducated creature as
an insult rather than a kindness. Her
poor little dead Carlo had been tended
as carefully as any of Liz’s other
patients, but the bereaved mother chose
to think it otherwise, as she burst in
upon them.</p>
<p>‘He is <i>dead</i>!’ she cried frantically, as
she almost flung the body upon the table.
‘And now, perhaps you will be satisfied,
Miss Lizzy. Now you will be glad to
think there is one bastard child less on my
massa’s plantation, and that I have nothing—nothing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>
left to remind me of my lover
who has sailed away to America.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, Rosa! how can you so misjudge
me?’ said Liz, as she put one arm round
the weeping girl. But Rosa flung it off.</p>
<p>‘It is true!’ she exclaimed fiercely;
‘you said he had better never have been
born, and now you have taken no trouble
to keep him in this world. I suppose you
thought it would be a right punishment
for my sin. But I hate you—and the
punishment shall come back on your own
head! I hope I shall live to see the
day when you shall weep as I weep,
and have nothing left you but the burden
of the shame.’</p>
<p>‘Rosa, you are not yourself! You do
not know what you are saying,’ replied
Lizzy calmly. ‘It is God Who has taken
your baby to Himself, and neither I nor
any one could have kept him here. Try<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>
and think of it like that, Rosa. Think
of little Carlo, happy and well for ever
in the gardens of heaven, and you
will not speak so wildly and bitterly
again.’</p>
<p>‘I shall! I shall!’ cried the girl, in the
same tone, as she seized the body again
and strained it in her arms; ‘and I shall
never feel satisfied, Missy Liz, till you
suffer as I have done.’</p>
<p>And with that she rushed out again into
the darkness.</p>
<p>Liz leant against the table, and trembled.
These were the things that had the power
to upset her. To toil for these people
early and late; to be at their beck and
call whenever they chose to summons
her; to lie awake at night thinking of
the best means to relieve their trouble,
and then to meet with ingratitude and
reproaches. It did indeed seem hard!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>
But it did not make her voice less
sweet whilst addressing the others. The
room in which they were assembled
was long and narrow—the only sitting-room
in the bungalow—and furnished
with severe simplicity. The matted floor,
the cane chairs, and plain unvarnished
table, all told of a life of labour rather
than of luxury, and except for Liz
Fellows’ desk and workbox, and a few
books which lay scattered about, it contained
few traces of occupation. Yet
it was the very absence of such things
that proved the inmates of the cottage
were too busy to think of much beyond
their profession. A large cupboard, with
a window in it, at the end of the apartment,
served as a surgery, and there Liz
soon turned to mix the febrifuges and
tonics required by her patients. As she
did so, she was greeted by a newcomer.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>‘Hullo! Miss Fellows, as busy as
usual, I suppose, and no time even to
bid a poor mariner welcome.’</p>
<p>Liz turned at the sound of the cheery
voice, with her welcome ready in her
eyes.</p>
<p>‘Oh, Captain Norris! Are you back
again already? When did you arrive?’</p>
<p>The stranger’s face fell.</p>
<p>‘<i>Back again already!</i> And I’ve been
absent from San Diego for at least six
months, and thinking they felt like six
years! When did I arrive? Why, this
evening! The “Trevelyan” dropped anchor
exactly at six o’clock, and directly I could
get away, I came up to see you.’</p>
<p>‘It is very good of you, and my father
will be delighted to see you. I expect
him in every minute. Sit down, Captain
Norris, whilst I mix the medicines for
these poor women, who are anxious to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>
get to their homes again, and then I will
hear all your news.’</p>
<p>She looked so cool and collected as,
having dismissed her patients, she drew
a chair to the table and sat down beside
him, that Captain Norris did not know
where to begin. He was a fine handsome
young man, with dark eyes and
hair; the skipper of a merchant vessel,
and every inch a sailor; and he was very
much in love with Lizzie Fellows. He
carried several neatly tied up parcels in
his hands, but he was too nervous to
allude to them at once.</p>
<p>‘I am sorry to find you have fever
in the island,’ he said, by way of a commencement.</p>
<p>‘Oh, it is terrible—a regular plague!’
replied Lizzie; ‘and though my father
has worked early and late amongst the
negroes, we have lost patients by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>
dozen. It is sickening to hear of the
numbers of deaths, and to witness
the trouble;—enough to break one’s
heart.’</p>
<p>‘But you keep well?’ he inquired
anxiously.</p>
<p>‘Oh, yes! Nothing ever ails me!
I have too much to do, and no time to
be ill. But I am very sad, and somewhat
disheartened.’</p>
<p>‘Mr Courtney must have experienced
a great loss.’</p>
<p>‘Yes! His plantation is sadly thinned,
but the deaths have been chiefly amongst
the children. Mr Courtney is very good
to them, and spares no expense to provide
them with comforts. It is no one’s
fault. It is the will of God, and we
must wait patiently till He removes the
scourge. But there is great distress, and
even starvation, amongst the native population<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>
in other parts of the island, and
some degree of insubordination.’</p>
<p>‘And how is Mr Courtney’s beautiful
daughter?’</p>
<p>‘Maraquita! She is not ill, but she
has been very languid lately, which we
attribute to the heat. But I have not
seen so much of her during the last few
months. I suppose she is too gay to
have any time to spare for us.’</p>
<p>‘And Henri de Courcelles! Is he still
the overseer at Beauregard?’ demanded
Captain Norris, after a short pause.</p>
<p>Liz coloured.</p>
<p>‘Yes! Why should he not be so? Mr
Courtney has every trust and confidence
in him.’</p>
<p>‘So much the worse, I think, for Mr
Courtney.’</p>
<p>She fired up directly.</p>
<p>‘Captain Norris, you have no right to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>
make such an insinuation! What do you
know against Monsieur de Courcelles?
It is unworthy of you to try and set his
friends against him, behind his back.’</p>
<p>‘I am sorry if you think so, Miss
Fellows; I hoped that you might not be
so intimate with De Courcelles as you
used to be. But let us talk of something
else. How is your father?’</p>
<p>‘Much the same as usual, Captain
Norris. Father is never very lively, as
you know. Sometimes I fancy this
climate must disagree with him, he is so
silent and depressed; but he has always
been the same, and he strenuously denies
any feeling of illness.’</p>
<p>‘It is a dull life that you lead here with
him, Liz.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t say that! A useful life can never
be dull, and I have many pleasures beside.’</p>
<p>‘But you would like to see a little more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>
of the world, would you not? You would
like to visit your native country, England,
and make the acquaintance of your relations?’</p>
<p>Liz looked at him wistfully.</p>
<p>‘I don’t think I should, at least under
present circumstances. I am afraid the
pain of leaving San Diego, and all those
whom I have known from childhood,
would out-balance the pleasure of seeing
fresh people and places. I have known
no other home than San Diego, Captain
Norris, and I don’t think I could bear to
leave the—the plantation.’</p>
<p>He did not answer her, but commenced,
somewhat nervously, to undo the packages
he held. As their contents came to view,
Liz saw spread before her on the table
a handsome morocco desk, a photographic
album, and a complete set of silver ornaments.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>‘Oh, how beautiful!’ she could not help
exclaiming.</p>
<p>‘They are for you,’ said her companion
brusquely; ‘I brought them from England
expressly for you.’</p>
<p>‘<i>For me!</i>’ repeated Liz wonderingly.
‘Oh, Captain Norris, how very good it
is of you! Whatever made you think of
<i>me</i>?’</p>
<p>He seized the hand which was feeling
the soft texture of the desk.</p>
<p>‘I do not know, I cannot tell you, but
it is the truth, Liz, that wherever I am, I
always think of you. All the time that
I have been away, your face and the
sound of your voice has haunted me, and
prevented my being charmed by any other
woman. I love you as I have never
loved before—as I never shall love again,
because I shall never meet another woman
so worthy of my love and my esteem.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>‘Oh, Captain Norris, pray don’t talk
to me like that! You are mistaken; I am
not the good woman you take me for.’</p>
<p>‘I must talk, and you must hear me to
the end, Liz! I wanted to say all this
to you last time I was in San Diego, but
a grave doubt prevented me. But now
I have come back to find you free, and
I cannot hold my tongue any longer. I
am not a boy, to be uncertain of my
feelings. I am a man and my own
master, and making a sufficient income to
keep you in comfort. Be my wife, Liz;
I won’t ask you to marry in a hurry, but
promise you will be my wife some day,
and I will summon up all the patience I
possess, and live on the hope of the
future.’</p>
<p>‘I cannot,’ she said, in a low voice.</p>
<p>‘You <i>cannot</i>!’ he echoed; ‘and why?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t think you should ask me. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>
don’t think you have the right to ask me.
But it is impossible. I shall never be
your wife.’</p>
<p>‘Does any one stand between us?’</p>
<p>Liz was silent. She would not tell the
truth, and she could not tell a lie. Captain
Norris turned on her almost fiercely in his
keen disappointment.</p>
<p>‘There does,’ he exclaimed. ‘I know it,
without your speaking, and I know who it
is into the bargain,—the same man who
drove me from San Diego last time
without speaking,—Henri de Courcelles.’</p>
<p>‘You have no right to make the assertion,
without authority,’ retorted Liz
Fellows; ‘but since you have done so, I
will not stoop to deny it. You are right;
I am engaged to be married to Monsieur
de Courcelles, but the fact is not generally
known, and so I trust you will respect
my confidence.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>Hugh Norris dropped his head upon his
hands.</p>
<p>‘Engaged,’ he murmured, ‘really and
truly engaged! My God! why did I not
have the courage to speak before?’</p>
<p>His despair roused her compassion. She
drew nearer, and laid her hand upon his
shoulder.</p>
<p>‘Indeed, it would have been of no use,
dear friend,’ she said gently; ‘Henri and
I have made up our minds upon this
matter for some time past, and should have
been married long ago, had his position
been a little better assured.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, of course, I stand no chance
against him!’ replied Captain Norris bitterly.
‘Monsieur de Courcelles, with his handsome
face, and dandy dress, galloping
about the plantation on his switch-tailed
mustang, must needs carry everything
before him. But he is not true to you,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>
Liz, all the same—and sooner or later
you will find it out. If he is engaged to
be married to you, he is a scoundrel, for he
spends half his time at the great house making
love to the planter’s pretty daughter.’</p>
<p>‘How <i>dare</i> you say so?’ cried Liz,
springing from her chair, and standing
before him with her face all aflame. ‘What
right have you to take away my lover’s
character before me?’</p>
<p>She had been too bashful to call him by
that name before, but now that she heard
him (as she thought) so cruelly maligned,
she felt he needed the confession of her
love for a protection against his slanderers.</p>
<p>‘Don’t be angry with me, Liz! don’t
be offended, but I feel I must tell you the
truth, even at the risk of never speaking
to you again. De Courcelles is not worthy
of you. Every one sees it but yourself.
His attentions to Maraquita Courtney<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>
are the common talk of the town, and
I heard bets passing pretty freely this
evening as to whether the planter would
ever countenance his impudent pretentions
to her hand.’</p>
<p>‘It is not true,’ repeated Liz, though
her face had turned very pale; ‘but if it
were, I know no reason why Mr Courtney
should object to Henri as a son-in-law.’</p>
<p>‘You are wilfully blind to the fact then
that he has black blood in his veins.’</p>
<p>Liz flushed crimson. How impossible
it seems, under the most favourable circumstances,
completely to overcome the
natural prejudice against the mixture of
blood; but she was true to her colours.</p>
<p>‘I know more about him than you can
tell me, Captain Norris! I know that his
father was French and his mother a Spanish
Creole. But it makes no difference to me.
If he were all black, he is the man <i>I love</i>,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>
and I will not stand by quietly and hear
him defamed.’</p>
<p>‘Who defamed him, Miss Fellows? I
merely stated the general opinion as to
De Courcelles’ chances of winning Miss
Courtney, though whether he succeeds or
not is a matter of the most perfect indifference
to me. But with regard to yourself,
it is a different matter. I may be strong
enough to bear my own disappointment,
but I will not see you throw your happiness
away without making an effort to
save you. Oh, Liz, my darling,’ cried
Hugh Norris, forgetting himself in his
anxiety for her, ‘throw this man over,
for Heaven’s sake, or you will rue it your
whole life long!’</p>
<p>‘Your advice has somewhat lost its
effect from what preceded it,’ replied Liz
coldly, ‘and I must request you to spare
it me in the future, Captain Norris. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>
also am old enough to know my own
mind, and my friends from my enemies.
I am very sorry that you came here to-night—still
more so that you should have
presumed to speak as you have done. I
should have liked to keep you as a friend,
but you have made that impossible.
Please to relieve me of your presence, and
let me quit the room until you are gone.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, I will go—sharp enough!’ said
Captain Norris, as he rose from his chair
and walked towards the door. ‘You shall
not ask me to leave you twice, Liz.’</p>
<p>‘Stay!’ cried the girl impetuously.
‘You have forgotten your presents. Take
them with you.’</p>
<p>‘Won’t you even keep the poor things
I have carried so far for you?’ he asked
her humbly.</p>
<p>‘Keep them!’ she echoed scornfully.
‘Keep a reminder always before me of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>
the man who maligned my dearest friend
to me? What do you take me for? No! If
you have any wish left that I should forget
this evening, and the pain you have caused
me, take your presents away with you.’</p>
<p>‘You set me a humbling task,’ said
Hugh Norris, as he collected his despised
gifts and repacked them in their papers.
‘But I will obey you. I would rather
throw them into the swamp, than leave
them here to annoy you. Only remember,
Liz, that <i>I love you</i>, and that when the day
comes (as it <i>will</i> come) when your other
lover forsakes you, I will prove what I say.’</p>
<p>He went then without another word,
though as he turned his eyes towards her
for a farewell look, Liz saw a misty light
beaming in them, which did not make her
feel as triumphant as she thought she
should have done to have gained the
victory over him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>She was still standing by the table
where he had left her, feeling hot and
cold by turns, as she pondered over the
rumour he had repeated, when a hasty
footstep passed over the threshold, and
Henri de Courcelles stood before her.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i028.jpg" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i029a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i029b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="B">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">B</span>EFORE she turned her head to
greet him, Liz knew <i>who</i> had
entered the bungalow. The
marvellous instinct of love made her <i>feel</i>
his presence, before she perceived it, and
this instinct, common to all human nature,
was deeply engrafted in that of Liz Fellows.
She had a heart that not only wound
itself round that of those she loved but
entered into it, and made its home there,
and she loved Henri de Courcelles with
all the strength and passion of which she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>
was capable. Their attachment had commenced
more than a year before, when she
and her father had brought De Courcelles
through a dangerous illness, and Liz had
nursed him into convalescence with the
tenderest care, and the young man had
rewarded her devotion with a confession
of love, which she believed to be as genuine
as her own. Before he rose from his
bed of sickness Henri de Courcelles had
pledged himself to marry Liz Fellows, and
at the time perhaps had honestly wished
to do so. But there were obstacles in the
way of an immediate union, and the engagement
had never been publicly announced.
Henri de Courcelles was a man
whose personal appearance would have
proved sufficient justification in most
women’s eyes for Liz’s excessive love for
him. From his French father he had
inherited a strength of limb and muscle,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>
and a symmetry of proportion, which is not
common amongst tropical nations, whilst
his beautiful Creole mother had given him
her Spanish eyes and colouring, with a
little trace—though too slight to be offensive—of
her African blood. Taken altogether,
Henri de Courcelles was a very handsome
and athletic young fellow, and with an
easy grace about his bearing and mode
of expressing himself that made him very
fascinating. That his visits to her father’s
bungalow had been shorter and less frequent
of late had never struck Liz as remarkable
until Captain Norris had drawn
her attention to the probable reason.</p>
<p>She was not of a jealous temperament,
and where we love and fear to lose, we will
hatch up any excuse to lull our doubts to
rest, sooner than wrong the creature on
whom all our hopes are fixed. Besides,
Liz was too busy a woman to spend<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>
her days sighing over an absent lover.
When she was not mixing and dispensing
medicines, or visiting her patients, or reading
the medical works recommended by
her father, she had her household affairs
to look after, or needlework to do, and
oftener longed for more time than for less.
And De Courcelles was a busy man also.
She would hardly have liked him if he
had not been so. He was overseer on the
coffee plantation of the rich planter Mr
Courtney, on whose estate Dr Fellows
lived, and had the complete control and
<i>surveillance</i> of the negro population. It
made Liz’s heart grieve sometimes to
hear the coolies complain of his harshness
and severity. She did not believe in her
heart that Henri <i>could</i> be unjust to any
one and thought the negroes only wished
to escape the punishments they had incurred—still
she could not help wishing,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>
with a sigh, that he had the power to
control them without punishment. But
of course <i>he</i> could not be in the wrong—not
entirely, that is to say. As she recognised
his footstep on the present occasion,
and all the painful doubt she was
experiencing fled like magic before the
pleasure of his presence, any one with a
knowledge of physiognomy could have
read how the woman loved him. Her
pale face flushed with expectation—her
quiet eyes glowed with fire—her whole
frame trembled in acknowledgment of the
man’s supremacy over her. But as he
advanced to the centre of the room and
she could discern his features, Liz started
with concern.</p>
<p>‘Henri! what is the matter? Are you
ill?’</p>
<p>‘Ill! No,’ he answered pettishly, as he
flung himself into a chair. ‘You are so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>
mixed up with your pills and potions, Liz,
that you can never imagine any other
cause for a man’s moods than illness. I’m
right enough. What should ail me?’</p>
<p>‘Ah! this dreadful fever, Henri. Forgive
me if I am nervous for the safety of
you and all whom I love. It strikes down
its victims like a plague, and its terrible
rapidity frightens me. It makes one feel
so helpless. Sometimes it takes but a few
hours to carry off its victims. I have been
at three deathbeds to-day. It is enough
to make a woman tremble at the least
symptom of illness in her own people.
And the epidemic seems to be on the
increase. Nothing that my father does
seems to stop it.’</p>
<p>‘Well, try and find some livelier topic
of conversation, Liz, for mercy’s sake. It’s
enough to give any fellow the blues to hear
you talk. I wish to goodness you followed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>
some other calling, or rather none at all;
but since it is unavoidable, spare me the
nauseous details. I have enough worries
of my own without discussing your professional
difficulties.’</p>
<p>Her sympathy was roused at once.</p>
<p>‘What worries, dear? Tell me of them.
Can I do nothing to help you out of them?’</p>
<p>He coloured slightly under his dark skin
as he stretched himself and said,—</p>
<p>‘Nothing—nothing. They are matters
of a purely private nature. But you know
how I detest the coloured people, Liz. It
is sufficiently annoying to me to be employed
amongst the brutes all day long,
without having to listen to a story of their
grievances when my work is over. I come
here for rest, not to talk about niggers.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I know, Henri, and it makes me
happy to hear you say that you expect to
find rest with me. But if you saw them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>
suffer as I do, you could not fail to feel for
them. Have you been very busy lately?’</p>
<p>‘Pretty well. Why do you ask?’</p>
<p>‘Because it is a week since you have
been at the cottage.’</p>
<p>‘You must be mistaken. I have called
here several times when you were out.
There’s no finding you at home now-a-days,
Liz.’</p>
<p>‘I have been very much occupied, I
know,’ she answered quietly, ‘but not so
much so as to make me forget that you
have not been here, Henri.’</p>
<p>The remembrance of what Captain Norris
had repeated to her recurred to her mind,
and on the spur of the moment she determined
to learn the truth.</p>
<p>‘You have been a great deal at the
White House, have you not?’ she continued.</p>
<p>He flushed again, and turned uneasily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>
in his chair, so as to avoid the straightforward
glance of her eyes.</p>
<p>‘Why do you ask me that question? I
am at the White House every morning
with my employer. It is part of my business
to go there.’</p>
<p>‘I don’t mean at Mr Courtney’s office,
Henri. I meant that you are a great deal
with Mrs Courtney and Maraquita—at
least I have been told so.’</p>
<p>‘I am much obliged to whoever was kind
enough to interest himself in my private
affairs. Am I indebted to your old flame
Captain Norris for spreading untruths about
me? I met him skulking round the bungalow
as I came along this evening.’</p>
<p>‘Captain Norris does not <i>skulk</i>’, replied
Liz quickly. ‘He has no need to do so.
Neither is he a “flame” of mine, and you
ought to know me better than to say so,
Henri.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>‘Well, it looks like it, when you take
up the cudgels so warmly in his defence.
However, we’ll let that drop. What has
he been telling you against me?’</p>
<p>‘Nothing—or at least nothing of his own
accord. He only repeated the common
rumour—that you are a great deal in the
society of Maraquita, and that—that people
are talking about it.’</p>
<p>She stood for a few moments after that,
expecting to hear an indignant denial from
his lips, but De Courcelles was silent.</p>
<p>‘Henri,’ she continued softly, turning a
very pale face towards him, ‘it is not <i>true</i>?’</p>
<p>‘What is not true?’ he inquired brusquely.</p>
<p>‘That—that you are tired of me, and
making love to Maraquita Courtney.’</p>
<p>‘Of course it isn’t true; it’s a d—d lie,
and the next time I meet that Norris, I’ll
break every bone in his body for saying so.’</p>
<p>She was all penitence for having suspected<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>
his fidelity in a moment. She
flung herself on her knees beside his
chair, and threw one arm around his
shoulders.</p>
<p>‘Oh, Henri! forgive me for having repeated
such a slander, but it hurt me so, I
couldn’t keep it to myself. But it was not
Captain Norris’s fault. He only told me
what he had heard in the town. He did
not think, perhaps, that it was of so much
consequence to me. And I know that you
<i>are</i> very intimate at the White House;
more so even than I am.’</p>
<p>‘Well, Mrs Courtney is very civil to me,
and I can hardly refuse her hospitality, on
the plea that I am engaged to be married,
can I?’</p>
<p>‘No! No! of course not. But still—though
I am <i>sure</i> that you are true to me,’
cried the woman, fighting against her own
horrible suspicions (for why should you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>
have asked me to marry you, unless you
loved me?) still, Maraquita is very lovely,
and she <i>likes</i> you, Henri, I am certain
of that. No! don’t interrupt me! Let
me say all I have to say to the end, and
then perhaps I shall forget it. You see,
dear, I—I am not beautiful (how I
wish, for <i>your</i> sake, that I were), and there
is nothing in me worthy of your affection,
except my love! And I have seen something
of men in my lifetime, and I can
understand something of their temptations.
Quita has been a flirt from a little child.
Who should know it better than myself,
who have been like a sister to her from
her birth? I was only five years old
when my father brought me to live at
Beauregard, and Quita was not born
for two years after that. I remember so
well the first visit I paid to the White
House to see the wonderful new baby, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>
how proud I was when old Jessica let me
hold her in my arms—’</p>
<p>‘Stop!’ exclaimed De Courcelles authoritatively.
‘What has all this to do with
me? I have no interest in these details
about Miss Courtney’s birth.’</p>
<p>‘I only mentioned it to show you how
well I must know Maraquita’s character.
We have grown up together, Henri, and
I can almost read her thoughts. She likes
you more than a friend, and when I heard
the rumours about you, I felt as if I could
have no chance against her.’</p>
<p>Henri de Courcelles had risen from his
seat during her last words, almost shaking
off her caressing hand in his impatience,
and stood beside her, white and angry.</p>
<p>‘I will hear no more of this nonsense,’
he cried; ‘I have told you already it is
a lie, and you insult me by repeating it.
Miss Courtney and I are nothing to each<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>
other, and it will ruin me with my employer
if this absurd report gains ground. I shall
get kicked out of Beauregard for nothing
at all, and then all chance of our marriage
will be at an end, and I shall probably
have to leave San Diego.’</p>
<p>‘It will not gain ground through <i>my</i>
means, and I am only too glad to know
that it is not true,’ replied Liz, rising to
her feet also.</p>
<p>She would have liked him to have put
his arms round her and assured her with a
kiss it was all an error, but she was too
proud to show the blank disappointment
that crept over her. Henri had denied
the scandal, and she was bound to believe
him, but still she was not satisfied, though
she could hardly have given a reason
for it.</p>
<p>‘Of course—of course—I <i>knew</i> it was
not true,’ she repeated, in a quivering voice,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>
as she tried to persuade herself that all was
right between them. ‘For once you <i>promised</i>
me—do you remember it, Henri?—that
if any one ever came between us, you
would let me know, so that at any rate I
should retain your confidence, even if I
lost your love.’</p>
<p>‘You harp so much on the question of
losing my love,’ he replied angrily, ‘that
you make me think you have no further
use for it.’</p>
<p>Liz looked bewildered.</p>
<p>‘Oh! what have I said to make you
speak like that?’ she exclaimed. ‘When
have I let you think that I was weary of
you—we who have agreed to pass our
lives together? Oh, Henri! is it my
fault? Has this misunderstanding sprung
from my apparent coldness? If so—forgive
me! For indeed—<i>indeed</i>—’ continued
Liz earnestly—all her reticence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>
vanishing before the fear of offending her
lover, ‘I am not cold. I have so much
important work to do, and serious things
to think of, that I am afraid sometimes to
let my thoughts dwell too much on our
affection, lest I should not keep my mind
clear. But that is not indifference. It is
too much love,’ she said, in a faltering
voice.</p>
<p>‘I have never doubted your love,’ replied
De Courcelles, softened by the sound
of her tearful voice, ‘and I don’t want you
to doubt mine, and especially not to listen
to tales that have no foundation, and are
calculated to injure my reputation. Maraquita
Courtney is nothing to me, and never
has been, and never will be. You may
take my word for that!’</p>
<p>‘Will you swear it?’ cried Liz eagerly.</p>
<p>He hesitated a moment, and then he
said,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>‘Yes, I swear it by the God Who made
us both!’</p>
<p>The woman dropped down into her chair
again, and burst into a flood of hysterical
tears.</p>
<p>‘Oh! I <i>felt</i> it! I <i>knew</i> it!’ she exclaimed.
‘I have been so happy in the
possession of your love. I was sure that
Heaven could not be so cruel as to take it
away from me.’</p>
<p>The young man crossed over to her, and
laid his hand upon her bent head.</p>
<p>‘No! no!’ he said soothingly. ‘No
one shall take it away. You are not like
yourself to-night, Liz. Where is all your
courage gone to? You, who can stand
by quietly and see an operation performed,
or a patient die, who are the coolest and
most collected woman I have ever met
with. Why! I don’t <i>know</i> you in this
new character.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>‘I <i>have</i> no courage where you are concerned,’
she answered passionately, as she
looked up and met the glance of his dark
eyes. ‘You are my life, Henri, and everything
that is best in me, would die without
you.’</p>
<p>He winced a little as she spoke, but he
professed to laugh at her vehemence.</p>
<p>‘It will not be my fault if you are ever
put to the test, Liz. How often have I
told you that my life belongs to you, since,
without your skill and care, I should have
lost it. Come, kiss me, and forget what
has passed between us. It is all the fault
of that meddling fellow Norris. I wish he
had been farther before he made mischief
between us.’</p>
<p>‘No one has the power to make mischief
between us,’ said Liz, smiling through her
tears. ‘I am quite happy again now, and
am only sorry my foolish jealousy should<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>
have betrayed me into making such a
scene. And, to prove it, let us talk of
Quita, Henri. I was wanting to see you,
just to ask after her.’</p>
<p>‘Can’t we find some pleasanter topic of
conversation, Liz? Besides, you know
more of Miss Courtney than I could tell
you.’</p>
<p>‘No! That is just where it is. I have
hardly seen anything of her since the fever
broke out. Father is not quite certain
whether it is contagious or not, and whilst
there is a doubt, he thinks it better I
should keep away from the White House.
But old Jessica says that Quita is not
looking at all well, and she is afraid there
is something serious the matter with her.’</p>
<p>De Courcelles fired up again directly.</p>
<p>‘Curse the old fool! What business
is it of hers how she looks! It’s this
infernal tittle-tattle from house to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>
house, that makes all the mischief in the
world.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, Henri! You forget Jessica was
Quita’s nurse. Why, she loves her like
her own child, and she says she has been
very depressed lately, and is often crying.
What should make her cry, Henri? Has
she any trouble?’</p>
<p>‘Don’t ask me! How should I know?’
he answered roughly. ‘Miss Courtney is
not likely to confide her troubles to her
father’s overseer. But I see no difference
in her.’</p>
<p>‘Perhaps it is only Jessica’s anxiety,’
said Liz thoughtfully. ‘But I am always
dreaming of this fever, and Maraquita is
too delicate to battle against it. I wish
Mr Courtney would send her out of the
island until it is dispersed.’</p>
<p>‘You don’t think of going yourself,
though.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>‘<i>I!</i> Oh, dear no! I <i>should</i> be a
coward to run away from these poor
people when I can be of use to them.
But Maraquita is different. She has nothing
to do but to think of the trouble
and brood over it, and she is easily
alarmed. She would be much better
away.’</p>
<p>‘I suppose if her parents thought so
they would send her. They have sufficient
money to do anything. But we
have discussed the subject enough, Liz,
and I am weary of it. Where is your
father?’</p>
<p>‘Here he is,’ replied Liz, in a brisk and
cheerful tone, as Dr Fellows entered the
bungalow.</p>
<p>Whatever her own doubts and imaginings,
she was always cheerful before her
father, for he seemed to carry a weight
through life that would break him down,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>
unless sustained by his daughter’s strength
of mind.</p>
<p>Dr Fellows was a man of about fifty
years of age, but he looked older. His
figure was bent and attenuated, his hair
nearly white, his features lined with care
and yellow from ill-health. No one to
see them together could have believed
him to be the father of the healthy and
finely-formed young woman who advanced
to meet him. The frank, ingenuous expression
on his daughter’s face contrasted
pleasantly with his reserved and somewhat
morose physiognomy. He hardly smiled
as she took his broad-brimmed Panama
hat and stick from him, and kissed him
on the forehead. The doctor was dressed
in a complete suit of white nankeen, and
his face was scarcely less white than his
clothes.</p>
<p>‘You look very tired, father!’ exclaimed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>
Liz. ‘Have you been far from the plantation
to-night, and are there any fresh
cases?’</p>
<p>‘I walked to the other side of Shanty
Hill, to see a child of Mathy Jones, but
I was too late. The fever had set in with
convulsions, and it was dead before I
arrived. And poor old Ben is gone too,
Liz; Mr Latham’s faithful old servant.
I would have given all I am worth to
save him, but I failed to do so. I think
my right hand must have lost its cunning,’
said the Doctor, in a tone of deep
depression.</p>
<p>‘No, no! father! It is nothing of the
sort. You are overtired with your constant
work, or you would not think of such
nonsense. Let me mix you a white wine
sherbet, you seem quite exhausted. And
here is Henri, so talk of something else,
and divert your thoughts.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>‘How are you, Monsieur de Courcelles?
We have not seen much of you lately,’
said Dr Fellows languidly.</p>
<p>The indifference with which he spoke,
showed that he did not care much for his
intended son-in-law. Indeed, excepting
that he believed his daughter to possess
a much clearer and more practical head
than his own, he never would have sanctioned
the engagement. But Lizzie loved
him, so the Doctor argued—and believed
in him, and therefore it must be all right.
Lizzie was too sensible to make a mistake
about it. The Doctor forgot, or was
ignorant of the fact, that the cleverest
women often make the greatest fools of
themselves where their hearts are concerned,
and their vivid imaginations make
them believe those they love to be all
they could wish them. The handsome,
<i>nonchalant</i> young Frenchman did not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>
appear much better pleased to meet Dr
Fellows than he did to see him, but he
considered it worth his while to refute
his assertion.</p>
<p>‘That has been your fault more than
mine,’ he replied airily. ‘I was just telling
your daughter that I have made several
attempts to find you at home, without
success. My time is not my own, you
know, any more than yours.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, if Liz is satisfied, I am sure <i>I</i>
am!’ retorted Dr Fellows.</p>
<p>‘It is all right, father, Henri and I perfectly
understand each other,’ interposed
his daughter cheerfully. ‘But had you not
better go and lie down, father? I don’t
like that heavy look in your eyes; and you
may be called up again at any hour of the
night. Do take some rest whilst you can.’</p>
<p>‘You are right, my dear,’ replied the
Doctor, staggering to his feet; ‘I really<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>
want rest. But you will go to bed, too,
Lizzie. You will not sit up too late with
Monsieur de Courcelles?’</p>
<p>‘There is no fear of that, for I am going
at once,’ said the young man, as he rose
to his feet. ‘Good-night, Doctor; good-night,
Liz. I shall look in upon you
again to-morrow.’</p>
<p>He nodded to each of them as he passed
out into the night air, and Liz looked after
his handsome lithe figure, as it disappeared
behind the clump of mango trees, with a
sigh of love and regret. But there was
nothing but affectionate solicitude patent
in her manner as she proffered her arm
to support her father to his room.</p>
<p>‘Father, you are trembling like a leaf.
I think I shall give you a little quinine.
By the way, have you heard any news
from the White House to-day? Are they
all well?’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>‘I trust so. I have heard nothing to the
contrary; and I saw Mr Courtney as usual
this morning. What makes you ask me,
my dear?’</p>
<p>‘Because Jessica said that Maraquita
looked ill.’</p>
<p>‘It can be nothing serious, or I should
have heard of it. Probably the effects of
this intense heat, and the unhealthy state
of the atmosphere. But they are well
provided with disinfectants at the White
House, and Mr Courtney will not permit
his wife or daughter to enter the plantation.
They always drive on the other
side of the island.’</p>
<p>‘That accounts for my not having seen
either of them for so long,’ said Lizzie, as
she left her father to lie down, dressed
as he was, and try to gain a much-needed
repose.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i056a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i056b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="A">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">A</span>S she re-entered the sitting-room,
she passed at once to the entrance
which led on to the verandah.
All the windows were wide open, and the
shaded lamp upon the table, round which
myriads of insects were hovering, conveyed
no heat to the apartment, yet it seemed to
stifle her for want of air. Her head and
her heart seemed both on fire, and she could
recall nothing of the events of the evening,
except that Henri had denied he was untrue
to her, and yet had left without giving her
any proof of his fidelity. The world seemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>
to be crumbling beneath her feet as she
stepped out of the open door, and lifted up
her face to the star-spangled sky. How
calm and peaceful and steadfast it appeared!
What a contrast to her own turbulent spirit,
and how she longed to be at peace also—anywhere,
anyhow, only <i>at peace</i>!</p>
<p>Liz was passing through the cruellest
phase of a disappointment in love—when
merciless doubt obtrudes its fang into the
heart, and poisons the whole being. How
we despise and hate ourselves for doubting,
and yet how painfully we go into the
minutiæ of our loathsome suspicion, and
dissect every reason that forbids our casting
it from us!</p>
<p>Liz felt as if she dared not think about
it. As she recalled De Courcelles’ words
and manner that evening, she saw that he
had not said or done a single thing calculated
to set her mind at rest. Except the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>
solemn oath which he had sworn, and
somehow, though she loved him, Liz derived
no comfort from remembering that
oath, and even wished he had not taken it.
That he might not have deserted her for the
sake of Maraquita Courtney was true—as
he had attested it, she was bound to believe
it was true—but he was changed to herself.
All the oaths sworn under heaven
could not disabuse her mind of <i>that</i> idea;
and if he were false, what did it signify to
her <i>who</i> occupied the place which she had
lost? The brave woman who could set a
broken limb, or lance an abscess without
wincing, shook like an aspen leaf at the
prospect of losing her handsome lover. Her
love was so knit to him, that she believed
she could never disentangle it, but would
have to live on, with her live warm heart
beating against his dead cold one, until
death came to release them. That is the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>
worst of finding out the unworthiness of
those whom we have believed in,—we
cannot all at once tear our hearts away,
and we despise ourselves for being so
weak as to let them bleed to death by
inches, instead of freeing them with one
wrench.</p>
<p>Liz was ready to despise herself as she
walked a little way from the bungalow.
It stood in the centre of the coffee plantation,
but a considerable space round it had
been set with ornamental shrubs and trees.
The glossy-leaved creamy-white magnolias,
with their golden centres, shed
their powerful perfume on the night air,
and a clump of orange trees in full blossom
mingled their scent with the magnolia.
The night-blowing cistus and the trumpet
flowers wound themselves up the supports
of the verandah; the insects, with many
a birr-r and whiz-z, disported themselves<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>
in the lemon grass, and from the covert of
the plantation came low-toned murmurs
from the sleepy love-birds, or the shrill cry
of a green parrot startled from its bower of
bud and blossom. Liz lifted her heated
face to heaven, as though she would draw
inspiration from its majestic calm.</p>
<p>Far off, from the cluster of negroes’ huts,
which bordered the property, she could
distinguish the crooning wails of the
mourners, preparing their dead for burial
at sunrise, and her heart bled for the poor
black mothers who had been compelled to
part with the babies at their breast. Death
and sorrow seemed to surround her, and
her spirits sunk down to their lowest ebb.
The stillness was intense. It was a night
when one seemed lifted up from this lower
earth, and capable of holding communion
with the Unseen.</p>
<p>But absorbed as Liz Fellows was in her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>
own trouble, she was startled after a while
by the sound of a low faint moan that
came from the surrounding thicket. Her
first idea was that it proceeded from
Rosa mourning over her dead child—poor
wild Rosa, who was so heedless as
to be almost half-witted, and who had
fallen a ready prey to some loafing young
sailor who had spent a few days near
the plantation. Liz had felt deeply interested
in this girl. She had been
shocked and horrified to find she had
so little sense of decency or respect for
her womanhood as to succumb to the
first temptation offered her, but she had
not slighted nor reproached the girl in
consequence. Such things were common
enough amongst the coolies. It was not
Liz’s vocation to preach but to console.
She had indeed, whilst watching over
Rosa and her baby, tried to convince<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>
her of the wrong she had committed,
both to her child and herself, but the
yellow girl had paid no attention to her
words, until the fever had carried off
little Carlo. Then they had come back
upon her mind with double force, and
she had resented them by insulting her
benefactress. But Liz bore no malice.
She was only anxious to console, as far
as possible, the poor bereaved young
mother, and when she heard the low
moans, which she fancied came from
Rosa, she plunged into the thicket whence
they proceeded. She had gone but a few
steps when she came upon a female
figure leaning against the trunk of a
mango tree, as though she had no strength
to proceed further. But the first glance,
even though given in the dusky light,
showed Lizzie that this was no coolie
girl—yellow, or otherwise. The slight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>
form was enveloped in a black mantle,
which covered it from head to foot, but
the hood had fallen back, and in the
white face turned up to the moonbeams,
Liz recognised, to her dismay, the features
of Maraquita Courtney.</p>
<p>‘Quita!’ she exclaimed, rushing forward,
‘my dear Quita, are you ill?’</p>
<p>But Maraquita shrunk from the kindly
hand which was laid upon her, as if it had
been the sting of a serpent.</p>
<p>‘Don’t touch me,’ she murmured; ‘I
could not bear it. I don’t want <i>you</i>. I
want—your—your—father.’</p>
<p>‘My father is at home, dear. He will
see you at once if you wish it. But
why didn’t you send for him, Maraquita,
if you felt ill? Why did you take the
trouble to come down here to see
him?’</p>
<p>But all the answer Maraquita made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>
was to utter another heartrending moan
as she swayed backwards and forwards
with pain.</p>
<p>‘Oh, my dearest girl, you are really
ill! You must come to the bungalow
at once, and let father prescribe for you.
Lean on me, Maraquita, and let me
support you. Only a few steps farther,
and we shall be there.’</p>
<p>The girl she spoke to appeared to
have no alternative but to accede to her
request. She leaned heavily on Liz’s
arm, and with many a moan dragged her
feet across the threshold of the Doctor’s
house, where she sank exhausted into a
chair.</p>
<p>She was a beautiful creature, who had
just attained her eighteenth year. Her
fair-haired English father had imparted
to her a skin of dazzling whiteness, with
a complexion like the heart of a maiden-blush<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>
rose, and her Spanish mother had
given her eyes dark as the sloe and
soft as velvet, with languishing lids and
curled lashes, and hair of rippling raven.
Maraquita’s form was slight and supple;
her hands and feet small and childlike.
She was in all points a great contrast
to the Doctor’s daughter, who regarded
her as the loveliest girl she had ever
seen. As little children they had been
the most intimate companions and playmates,
Lizzie acting as an elder sister
and protector to the little Maraquita,
who toddled all over the plantation
under her care. When older, too, they
had studied together, or rather Liz had
tried to impart the knowledge she derived
from her father to Quita; but the
latter had never advanced beyond the
rudiments of learning. Her indolent,
half-educated mother, who lounged about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>
in a dressing-gown all day, and had no
thoughts beyond her Sunday attire and
her evening drive, considered schooling
quite unnecessary for her beautiful little
daughter, and much preferred to see her
running about the White House in a lace
frock and blue ribbons, with her rosy,
dimpled feet bare, to letting her be
cooped up in the bungalow studying
grammar and geography.</p>
<p>So Maraquita had grown up to womanhood
about as ignorant as it is possible
for a young lady to be—about also as
vain and foolish as it is possible for a
woman to be. Yet Liz loved her—spite
of it all—for the sake of those early
memories. She had never relinquished
her intimacy with Quita, and when they
met, they were as familiar as of old,
but they did not meet so often as before.
The last two years, during which Miss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>
Courtney had been introduced to the
society of San Diego, had much separated
them. The pleasant evenings which they
had been used to spend together, wandering
through the coffee plantation, were
gone for ever. Quita was always engaged
now, either to a dinner, or a ball, or to
go to the theatre with her friends, and
Liz had ceased to expect to see her.
And since the fever had broken out
amongst the coolies, they had never met,
and she was content, for Quita’s sake, that
it should be so. And now to find her
wandering about the plantation at night
and evidently so ill, filled Liz’s breast
with alarm. There was but one solution
of the riddle. Quita had contracted
the fever in its worst form, and had come
to them in her delirium. Liz had no
time to do more than think the thought
before she deposited Quita in a chair and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>
rushed to wake her father, and summon
him to her relief.</p>
<p>‘Father,’ she exclaimed hurriedly, as
she roused Dr Fellows from his sleep,
‘I am so sorry to disturb you, but it is
absolutely necessary. Quita is ill—very
ill, and you must come to her at once.
I met her wandering about the grounds,
evidently in great pain, and she says she
wants to see you. I am afraid she is
delirious. Oh, father, do come to her
at once!’</p>
<p>‘Maraquita <i>here</i>?’ said the Doctor,
as he rose from his bed and prepared
to quit the room. ‘And without her
parents? Impossible.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, father, I am sure she is not in
her right senses, though she is too ill
to speak much. What will Mr and Mrs
Courtney say?’</p>
<p>‘We must send word to them at once,’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>
exclaimed the Doctor, as he preceded his
daughter to the sitting-room. But as
soon as he had felt Maraquita’s pulse,
and listened to her moans, the expression
of his face changed from concern to the
deepest dismay. ‘This is much worse
than I anticipated,’ he whispered to his
daughter. ‘We must carry her into
my room at once.’</p>
<p>‘Dr Fellows,’ cried the sick girl,
as she clutched at his coat sleeve,
‘save me, for God’s sake—save me!
I came to you because you are so
good and kind, but—but—I think I am
dying.’</p>
<p>‘No! No! my dear! it will be all
right by-and-by,’ replied the Doctor
soothingly; ‘but you must be good now,
and do as I tell you, and you will soon
be well. Liz and I are going to move you
into my bedroom.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>‘And shall I be alone with you?’ she
asked, with scared eyes.</p>
<p>‘Yes!—<i>quite</i> alone! Now, Lizzie, take
her feet, and I will carry her head and
shoulders, and we’ll have her on the bed
in no time.’</p>
<p>‘Is it the fever?’ inquired Liz, with a
white face, for she knew that Maraquita’s
constitution was very fragile.</p>
<p>‘Yes! yes! Now, go and leave us,
and tell this to no one.’</p>
<p>‘But, father, let me undress her first.’</p>
<p>‘I wish you to go at once and
leave us alone,’ repeated the Doctor
firmly.</p>
<p>Liz obeyed her father’s orders at once.
She was too well used to work under
him as an assistant, to dream of disputing
them. But she was very much astonished
to hear him send her away from her
adopted sister’s side.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>‘Shall I run up to the White House
and tell Mr and Mrs Courtney that Quita
is with us, father? They will be terribly
alarmed if they find out she has
gone.’</p>
<p>‘Go nowhere, and speak to no one,’ replied
Dr Fellows authoritatively. ‘They
are <i>my orders</i>, remember. Remain in the
sitting-room, and let no one enter the
house. When I require you, I will call
you.’</p>
<p>Liz walked out of the bed-chamber at
once, and left her father with his patient.
She could not understand him this evening,
and his action alarmed as much as it
puzzled her. Maraquita must indeed be
ill, to make him look and speak with such
complete dismay; he who was generally
so cool and self-collected, and who appeared
to look on death, whenever it occurred,
as a kindly note of release from a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>
very troublesome world. She drew out
her work (for whatever her mental perplexities,
Liz was never idle) and sat
down to sew and practise patience. She
could not help hearing the low moans
that forced their way through the wooden
partitions of the building, and her father’s
soothing tones, but she could gain no
knowledge of what was passing there.
At last, after the space of an hour,
although it had seemed much longer, Dr
Fellows entered the room in which she
sat, and went to his cupboard in search
of some medicine. His daughter looked
up anxiously as he appeared.</p>
<p>‘Only tell me if she is better,’ she
urged.</p>
<p>‘She is not better yet,’ replied her
father; ‘but there is every hope she
soon will be.’</p>
<p>‘Thank Heaven for it! But I cannot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>
help thinking of her poor parents.
Perhaps they have discovered her absence,
and are searching the island
for her. It is cruel to keep them in
suspense.’</p>
<p>‘I think if you look at the matter from
a sensible point of view, Liz, you will see
that <i>when</i> they miss Maraquita, <i>my</i> bungalow
is the first place they will visit. But
I do not think they <i>will</i> miss her, at least
not yet. Meanwhile I want to speak to
you. Can you give me your serious attention?’</p>
<p>‘Unless Quita should want you,’ replied
Liz, looking anxiously towards the bed-chamber.</p>
<p>‘She will not do so for some little time,
for I have given her a soothing draught,
and she is asleep; and I can hear the least
sound from where I stand. But it is
necessary you should listen to me.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>‘I am all attention, father.’</p>
<p>‘You have spent the best part of your
life in San Diego, Liz; has it ever struck
you as strange that I, an Englishman, and
a certificated doctor, should have chosen to
make my home in this island, and live,
as it were, on the bounty of Edward
Courtney?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t know that I have thought it
<i>strange</i>, father, for you might have had
a thousand reasons for settling in this
beautiful island, but I have felt for
a long time past that you have some
secret trouble, to make you shun
the curiosity or the publicity of the
world.’</p>
<p>‘You are right, Liz, and you are old
enough now to share that sorrow—or
rather that <i>shame</i>.’</p>
<p>‘Oh! no, no, father, don’t say <i>that</i>!’
cried Lizzie, as her work dropped into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>
her lap. ‘Whatever it may be, it is not
<i>shame</i>.’</p>
<p>‘My dear, I cannot conceal the fact
any longer, for without it you will never
understand what I am about to tell you.
The very name we bear, Liz, is not our
own. I was compelled to adopt the
name of Fellows, in order to escape—’</p>
<p>‘<span class="smcap">What?</span> In Heaven’s name, <span class="allsmcap">WHAT</span>?’
she exclaimed, clutching at his sleeve.</p>
<p>‘<i>Transportation</i>,’ replied Dr Fellows,
in a low, strained voice.</p>
<p>She was about to scream out, to protest
her horror of the disgrace attached
to them,—her indignation that he should
have brought it on their heads,—but
a glance at her father’s pale, pained
face restrained her. In a moment
she realised the awful effort it must
have been for him to confess his
guilt before his daughter, and womanly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>
compassion took the place of her first
resentment.</p>
<p>‘My poor father,’ she said, in a low
voice, as she took his hands in hers.
‘My <i>poor</i> father! Surely it was not
deserved. There <i>must</i> have been some
mistake.’</p>
<p>‘No, Lizzie, there was no mistake.
Since I have told you so far, you must
hear all! I am a forger.’</p>
<p>She hid her face in her hands then,
for she did not care to look at him, lest
he should read the contempt she felt her
features must express.</p>
<p>‘This is the secret of the friendship
between me and Mr Courtney. I owe
him more than my life. We were boys
at school together, Liz, and chums at
college, and always the best of friends.
But he was rich—the only son of a
wealthy planter—and I was very poor,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>
and had nothing to depend on but my wits.
He led me into extravagances which I
was too ready to follow, but whilst he
had the means to defray his debts, I had
no power to do the same by mine. At
last, in an evil moment, to prevent a bill
coming upon my old father which would
have broken up his humble home and
sent him to the workhouse, I forged my
friend Edward Courtney’s name, as a
temporary relief. Before I could make
up the money, the paper fell into his
hands, and he might have ruined me; instead
of which, Liz, he forgave me freely;
but the rumour had got abroad, and I
was a ruined man. I was married, and
set up in a small practice. I lost it all,
and it preyed so on your poor mother’s
mind that when you were born, she
faded out of life, and left me alone with
my disgrace. I took you away from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>
the place, and tried to establish a practice
in various parts of England without
success—the whispered scandal followed
me everywhere—until Mr Courtney came
into his father’s property, and settled out
in San Diego; then he wrote and begged
me for the sake of our old friendship, to
let the past be forgotten between us, and
to come out here and hold an appointment
on Beauregard as medical overseer
to the plantation. As soon as I could
bring down my pride to accept a benefit
from the man I had so deeply wronged,
I brought you over here, and we have
been dependants on Edward Courtney’s
bounty ever since. Lizzie, what do we
owe the man who has placed us under
such an obligation?’</p>
<p>‘Our lives, should he require them,’ she
answered, in a low voice.</p>
<p>She was deeply humiliated by what she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>
had heard. She had never dreamt that
the evident trouble under which her father
laboured could be the brand of shame.
Her proud independent spirit writhed
under the knowledge that she had been
reared on the bread of charity,—that the
very name she passed by was not her
own, and that the best spirit which she
and her father could claim from their
benefactor, was one of tolerance only.
She could have cried out to Dr Fellows
then and there, to take her away from
the surroundings which had become hateful
to her, because they must evermore
be associated with the bitter story of his
guilt. But she only hung her head, and
spoke in a whisper. Her father had been
sufficiently degraded by having to tell her
such a story, and he had been very good
to her, and it was not his daughter’s part
to add to his suffering. But she threw<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>
the full depth of its meaning into the
answer she returned him, and he caught
at it eagerly.</p>
<p>‘You are right, Liz. Our lives, and all
we have, should be at his disposal, in
return for all his goodness to us. You
cannot feel that more deeply than I do.
And now I want to hear you take a solemn
oath to that effect.’</p>
<p>‘<i>An oath!</i>’ cried Lizzie, startled at the
idea.</p>
<p>‘Yes! an oath before Almighty God.
Nothing short of it will satisfy me, and
set my mind at rest.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, father!’ she exclaimed, remembering
another oath which she had heard
that evening, ‘will not my promise do
as well? You know that I would not
dare to break it. It would be as sacred
to me as any oath.’</p>
<p>‘No, Lizzie—no! I am not asking this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>
for myself, but for another—for my
friend Edward Courtney, to whom we
owe so much, and nothing short of
an oath will do. Say, “I swear before
Almighty God, and by all my hopes
of salvation, that I will never repeat
what I may see, or hear, or suspect
this night.”’</p>
<p>‘Oh, father! you frighten me! What
terrible thing is going to happen?’</p>
<p>‘Are you a child, to be scared by a few
words? If you will not swear it, Lizzie, I
will send you out of the bungalow this
minute, to the house of our next neighbours,
and you shall not return until I
fetch you. But I want your assistance,
and if you will do as I require you, you
can stay and help me.’</p>
<p>‘For Quita’s sake then, father, “I
swear before Almighty God, and by all
my hopes of salvation, that I will never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>
repeat what I may see, or hear, or suspect
this night.”’</p>
<p>‘That is my brave, good daughter,’
said the Doctor, as he laid his hand
for a moment on her head, before he
gathered up the medicines he had
selected, and left the room.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i082.jpg" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i083a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i083b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="L">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">L</span>IZ stood where he had left her,
awestruck and bewildered. All
her private trouble of that
evening—the sickening doubts she had
conceived of her lover’s fidelity, and her
fears for Maraquita’s safety—faded before
the humbling truths she had just heard.
<i>This</i>, then, was the solution of the riddle
which had so long puzzled her—the meaning
of her father’s secret anxiety and depression.
He was a criminal, whose crime
was known to the law, and who had only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>
escaped justice by yielding up his birthright
and hiding on the plantation of his
benefactor, Mr Courtney. It was a <i>very</i>
bitter truth to swallow.</p>
<p>Liz wondered how much Mrs Courtney
and Maraquita knew of their disgrace,
and what revulsion of feeling it might
not cause in the breast of Henri de
Courcelles. The thought of her lover
caused a sharp pang to Lizzie. What
terrible thing was about to happen in
the future for her with regard to him?
Her father’s revelation had raised a new
barrier between them—one which honour
compelled her to feel could never be
surmounted until she was permitted to
reveal it; and what consequences might
not follow such a confession. As Liz
pondered on the difficulties in her path,
she shivered to hear the keening of the
night breeze as it sighed through the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>
branches of the coffee trees, and the
far-off wailing which could occasionally
be heard from the negroes’ huts. They
seemed like a requiem over the ashes
of her love and blighted hope.</p>
<p>The tears were standing on her cheeks
when she was roused from her reverie by
the opening of the door, and her father
stood before her again.</p>
<p>‘Do you want me?’ she said
quickly.</p>
<p>Dr Fellows answered her in a tone of
portentous gravity,—</p>
<p>‘Yes, Liz, though not in the way you
imagine. Set your mind at rest concerning
Maraquita. There is nothing to
be alarmed at about her. But you must
execute a commission at once for me.
You must carry this basket to Mammy
Lila on the Shanty Hill.’</p>
<p>Liz glanced at the large basket which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>
her father carried in his hand, with astonishment.</p>
<p>‘I am to go to the Shanty Hill to-night,
father? Do you know that it is
five miles away, and it is just two o’clock?
Cannot it wait until the morning?’</p>
<p>‘If it could have waited till the
morning I should not have told you to
take it now,’ replied the Doctor sternly.
‘Have you already forgotten your own
acknowledgment that we owe (if necessary)
our very lives to Edward Courtney.’</p>
<p>‘But what has this to do with Mr
Courtney?’</p>
<p>‘Ask no questions, but do as I bid you.
If any one else could do the work as well
as yourself, I should not trouble you, Liz.
But I can trust no one but you. Carry
the basket to Mammy Lila’s hut, and
leave it there. Tell her it comes from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>
me, and my message to her is “<i>Silence
and secrecy</i>.”’</p>
<p>‘I will go,’ said Lizzie shortly, as she
took the basket from her father’s hand.</p>
<p>‘Go by the path that skirts the outer
plantation, and cross the ravine by Dorrian’s
glen; it is the shorter way,’ continued
Dr Fellows; and then suddenly
twisting his daughter round so as to look
into her face, he asked her,—‘Have you
any fear? It is dangerous traversing these
roads by night, and alone. There may
be snakes across the path, or panthers
lurking in the thickets. Are you sure
you are not afraid?’</p>
<p>The contemptuous curl of Liz’s lip
showed him the futility of the question.</p>
<p>‘<i>Afraid!</i>’ she echoed. ‘When have
you ever known me afraid yet? Besides,
if this is to be done for <i>Mr Courtney</i>,
my life is at his service.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>‘More than your life, Lizzie—your sacred
honour. Remember your oath, never to
reveal what you may hear, see, or suspect
this night.’</p>
<p>‘I have not forgotten it,’ said his
daughter briefly, as she threw a mantle
over her shoulders, and left the cottage
with her burden.</p>
<p>It was with strange feelings that she
set out to accomplish her errand. The
tropical night could hardly be called dark,
for the deep blue firmament was set with
myriads of stars, but the dusky glens
and leafy coverts were full of shadows,
sufficient to mask the unexpected spring
of wild cat or panther, or to conceal the
poisonous asp wriggling through the grass
on which she trod.</p>
<p>Yet she went bravely on, her only
means of defence a stout stick with
which she stirred the leaves in her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>
path, in order to unearth a hidden
enemy.</p>
<p>The covered basket she bore was rather
heavy, and she had no knowledge what
it contained. Most women would have
asked the question before they started—many
would have untied and opened it
as soon as they were out of sight. Liz
did neither. A horrible suspicion had
entered her mind, which she was fighting
against with all her might, and it
left no room for idle curiosity. On the
contrary, she dreaded lest some accident
should reveal the contents of the basket
to her. She did not wish to ascertain
them. She felt intuitively that the knowledge
would be the cause of fresh unhappiness.
So she walked rapidly and without
a pause to Shanty Hill, though the five
miles seemed very long without the landmarks
familiar to her by daylight, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>
her feet were very weary before she got
there.</p>
<p>Mammy Lila was an old negress who
had acquired some repute as a herbalist,
and was much sought after by the Coolie
population to doctor their children. She
was the <i>sage-femme</i> of Beauregard, and had
helped Liz on many an occasion to usher
the poor little dusky mites of humanity
into a world which waited to welcome
them with stripes and hard work. Mammy
Lila was a seer into the bargain, and
expectant brides and mothers were wont
to go to her to read what fortune lay in
the future for them. She was an old
woman now, and rather infirm, but Dr
Fellows had faith in her good sense and
discretion, as he evinced on this occasion.
The immediate approach to her hut was
up a steep bit of hill, covered with loose
stones, and as Lizzie, weary with mental<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>
and physical fatigue, toiled up it, she
stumbled against an obstacle in her path,
and shook the basket in her hand, from
which issued in another second the feeble
wailing cry of a new-born infant. Liz
almost dropped the basket in her surprise.
She had feared it, but she had resolved
<i>not</i> to believe it, and now her worst
suspicions were confirmed. She stood
still for a moment, trembling at the
discovery she had made, and then recommenced
almost to <i>run</i> up the rocky
hill, as though she would run from the
horror that assailed her. Panting with
the exertions she had made, and almost
speechless with dismay, she entered the
negress’s hut, white, scared, and hardly
able to express herself. Mammy Lila
was in bed, and had to be roused by
repeated attacks upon her door, and
when she answered the summons she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>
was scarcely awake enough to understand
what was said to her.</p>
<p>‘Missy Liz!’ she exclaimed in her surprise;
‘who bad now? Not little Cora,
sure! Dat chile not due for three week
yet.’</p>
<p>‘No, no, Mammy! I have not come
for that,’ said Lizzie, in a faint voice.
‘The Doctor sent me. He said I was
to give you <i>this</i>,’ placing the basket on
the floor, ‘and to say his message to you
is “<i>Silence and secrecy</i>.”’</p>
<p>‘Ah! good Doctor know he can trust
Mammy Lila,’ replied the old negress,
as she began to untie the basket
lid. ‘And what is this, Missy Liz—a
baby?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t know—I don’t want to know—don’t
ask me!’ cried Liz Fellows, as she
turned quickly away. ‘Only remember
father’s message, “<i>Silence and secrecy</i>,”’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>
and with that she ran quickly down the
uneven rocky path again.</p>
<p>The loose stones rolled away from
under her feet, and hurt them in her
rapid descent, but she cared nothing at
that moment for pain or inconvenience.
All her desire was to get out of sight
and out of hearing, and forget if possible
the horrid task that had been imposed
upon her. Maraquita—whom she had
known from babyhood, and believed to
be so innocent and pure, to have subjected
herself to this penalty of shame.
It seemed too awful and incredible a
thought to be dwelt upon. Liz remembered,
as she ran hurriedly homewards,
how she had blamed poor heedless
Rosa for the same fault,—how sternly
she had reproved the ignorant yellow
girl, who knew no better than to follow
the instincts of her fallen nature, for her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>
depravity, and told her she ought to
have had more principle, and a better
sense of right and wrong, than to yield
to such a temptation. But Maraquita,
so much beloved, so tenderly watched,
so closely guarded, how could <i>she</i> have
so deceived her friends and lowered herself;
and <i>who</i> could have been so base
as to lead her astray? This discovery,
terribly as it affected Liz, cleared her
lover’s character at once in her eyes;
and even in the midst of her pain, she
could not help breathing a sigh of thankfulness
to think that Henri de Courcelles
was innocent of the charge imputed to
him. He could never have been flirting
with the planter’s daughter whilst she
had conceived a serious affection for
some one else. Liz recalled the fervour
of his oath with secret satisfaction; it
was no wonder indeed that he felt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>
justified in taking it, and she felt ashamed
of the jealous spirit that had forced it
from him.</p>
<p>But her thoughts soon reverted to her
adopted sister, and she burned with resentment
against her unknown betrayer. Her
vow to Dr Fellows—which she felt to be
as sacred as though uttered before God’s
throne; the revelation which had been
made to her that evening of their own disgrace;
pity for her friend’s misfortune, and
love for Henri de Courcelles, were all
warring in her breast, and making her
mind a chaos, as, wearied and panting,
she stumbled over the threshold of her
father’s bungalow. She expected to find
him alone with Quita,—to be able to tell
him of her hopes and fears,—but, to her
consternation, the room was full, and as
she paused in the open doorway, her white
and anxious face made her look like a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>
guilty person. Mr and Mrs Courtney,
with the old black nurse Jessica, were
all there, and Dr Fellows was talking
earnestly to them. As he caught sight
of his daughter, he turned to meet her.</p>
<p>‘<i>You know all</i>,’ he whispered sternly,
as he looked into her sad eyes, and squeezed
her hand as in a vice. ‘<i>Remember your
oath.</i>’</p>
<p>‘Why, is that Lizzie?’ exclaimed Mrs
Courtney from the sofa, where she lay
extended. ‘I thought she was nursing
our poor Quita. Whatever has she been
doing out of doors at this time of night?’</p>
<p>‘She has been to fetch me some necessary
drugs,’ replied the Doctor quickly.</p>
<p>Mrs Courtney had been a beautiful
creature in her youth, but though not
forty years of age, she had already lost all
pretensions to good looks. She was corpulent
and ungainly. Her large sleepy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>
black eyes were sunk in a round face, with
a yellow complexion, and triple chins. Her
waving black hair was twisted untidily at
the back of her head, and her abundant
figure, unrestrained by belt or corset, was
enveloped in a loose dressing-gown. But
she rolled off the sofa nimbly enough when
she heard the voice of Liz Fellows.</p>
<p>‘Oh, Liz!’ she exclaimed, grasping her
hand, ‘this is terrible news the Doctor has
to give us; our darling Quita down with
the fever. Fancy the dear child rambling
to your house in her delirium! What a
mercy she had sufficient sense left to guide
her. She might have walked into the
river. You may fancy what we felt when
we heard that she was gone. Jessica found
it out first when she went into her room
with some iced sherbet, for Quita has been
very restless at night lately. I suppose it
was this horrid fever coming on, but she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>
has been quite out of sorts for some weeks
past. But oh! Lizzie, how <i>can</i> she have
caught it?’</p>
<p>This long harangue had given Lizzie
an opportunity to recover her equanimity,
and she was able to reply quite
calmly,—</p>
<p>‘It is quite impossible to say, dear Mrs
Courtney; but father does not think seriously
of the case, and so you must not be
too anxious about her.’</p>
<p>‘But he will not let us even <i>look</i> at the
dear child. Dr Fellows, I really think you
are <i>too</i> particular. Surely her parents have
the <i>right</i> to see her.’</p>
<p>‘Certainly, my dear madam, if you insist
upon it; but I think Mr Courtney will
uphold my decision. I have not been
able to determine if this fever which is
decimating your plantation is contagious
or not. I rather fancy it is epidemic, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>
it is impossible to say, because it is of
no known character. It is surely more
prudent, however, to keep on the right
side. If Maraquita were in the slightest
danger—if she were even seriously ill,
I should be the first to entreat you to see
her, but as it is, your presence would only
do her harm. She is weak and exhausted,
and everything depends on her gaining
strength from sleep. Would you be so
selfish as to excite and throw her back
again, by disturbing her, or run the risk of
contracting the disease yourself?’</p>
<p>‘Certainly <i>not</i>,’ interrupted Mr Courtney
decisively. ‘You are right, Fellows, as
you always are—’</p>
<p>(‘Don’t say that,’ interpolated the
Doctor, in a pained voice.)</p>
<p>‘——and I forbid my wife going near
the room where Maraquita lies. I can
trust her to you, Fellows—implicitly, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>
with the most perfect confidence. I know
you will do your very best for my dear child,
and treat her as if she were your own.’</p>
<p>‘Indeed—indeed I will, Courtney! If
a sense of all I owe to you—’</p>
<p>‘Hush! I will not hear you mention it.
If such were ever the case, you have
repaid it a thousand fold. And here I
give you the best proof I could, of my
friendship and affection. I leave with you
my dearest possession—my only child.
Fellows, my dear old chum, I know there
is no need for me to recommend her to
your care. You can remember how long
it was before she came to us, how gladly
I received the gift, and how precious it
has been to me ever since. My very
life is bound up in my little Quita. You
will guard it—’</p>
<p>‘With my own,’ interrupted the Doctor
solemnly. ‘I would lay down my life to-morrow,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>
Courtney, to save that of any one
who is dear to you.’</p>
<p>‘I believe it, my dear fellow, and, thank
God, there is no necessity for such a
sacrifice. You can assure us that
Maraquita is in no danger.’</p>
<p>‘On my word of honour, she is in no
danger whatever, and in a few days she
will be quite well again. All she needs
is rest and quiet, and if you will trust
her to Liz and me, we will see that she
gets it.’</p>
<p>‘We do trust her with you; and Liz, we
know, will make the most devoted nurse,’
said Mr Courtney, smiling; but as he
caught sight of Lizzie’s face, the smile
faded. ‘Holloa! what is this? Are you
going to have the fever too? You are as
white as a sheet.’</p>
<p>‘It is the heat,’ murmured Liz, in a low
voice, as she turned away; ‘and I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>
had a great deal of nursing lately into
the bargain, Mr Courtney. Father and I
have the heartache all day long, to see
the ravages made by the fever amongst
the coolies.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, it is sad enough,’ said the planter,
‘even for those who have not to count
the loss as I have, by pounds, shillings,
and pence. Do what we will to improve
the condition of these people, their natural
love of dirt and over feeding makes them
fall an easy prey to any disease. We are
quite sensible of what you and your father
have done for us, Lizzie. It is through
your means alone, that we have not lost
many more. You must not be disheartened
on that account.’</p>
<p>‘The distress seems universal,’ continued
Liz; ‘the same floods that rotted
the vegetation, and caused this malarious
fever, have destroyed the rice-fields, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>
spread a famine amongst the negro population.
The cases of starvation that reach
us every day are heartrending, because
it is so impossible to relieve them all.
Have there been any more riots in the
town, Mr Courtney?’</p>
<p>‘No, Liz. I have heard of none since
the military were called out to quell them.
But we must keep you up no longer. It
is already morning. Come, my dear Nita,
let us leave Dr Fellows and his daughter
to get some rest for themselves.’</p>
<p>But Mrs Courtney was still unwilling
to assent entirely to the Doctor’s wishes.
She had no suspicion of the truth, but
she felt intuitively that something had
been kept back from them, and she was
curious to find out what it was.</p>
<p>‘Let Jessica stay, at all events,’ she
said; ‘she has been Quita’s nurse since
she was a baby, and has attended her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>
through all her illnesses. She will break
her heart if you do not let her stay; and
she can watch Maraquita when Lizzie is
absent or engaged.’</p>
<p>‘That sounds reasonable,’ acquiesced
Mr Courtney; ‘and perhaps Jessica had
better remain at the bungalow.’</p>
<p>But Dr Fellows was firm in resisting
the proposal.</p>
<p>‘Jessica can remain here if you desire
it,’ he answered, ‘but she does not enter
Quita’s room. I am not even sure that
Lizzie will do so. You have confided
your daughter to my care, Mr Courtney,
and you will not find me unworthy of
the trust. I shall be both nurse and
doctor to Maraquita, until I can bring
her to the White House again.’</p>
<p>‘You are a good fellow,’ said Mr
Courtney, wringing the Doctor’s hand,
‘and I do not limit the confidence I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>
place in you. Jessica shall return with
us, and we will leave Quita entirely in
your care.’</p>
<p>‘You shall have no cause to regret it,’
replied Dr Fellows, as he accompanied
them to the door of the bungalow. ‘You
can send down as often as you like for
news of her, and I shall be found at
my post, ready to report on her progress.
But I honestly anticipate restoring
her to you in a very short time.’</p>
<p>As he returned from seeing them off,
and met his daughter’s eye, his face
changed, and his expression became very
grave.</p>
<p>‘That is well over,’ he ejaculated, with
a sigh, ‘and the rest remains, Lizzie,
with you and me.’</p>
<p>‘Which means, father, that she is safe
as far as <i>we</i> are concerned. Am I to
go into her room?’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>‘No; I should prefer you should not.
There is no necessity for your presence
there, and I wish to leave you as unfettered
as I possibly can. You have no notion
how this calamity happened, Liz?’</p>
<p>‘Not the slightest. I know so few of
her friends. I have not even heard that
she had an attachment for any one.’</p>
<p>‘Well, it is a terrible business, but we
must stand her friends, and see her through
with it. She has told me nothing, poor
child; but she has thrown herself upon my
mercy, and entreated me to save her from
the wrath and reproaches of her parents,
and for their sakes I have promised to do
so. She implores that even <i>you</i> shall not
be told of her misfortune, and I have been
obliged to humour her. We must keep up
the deception of the fever, and as soon as
she is sufficiently recovered to return home,
the danger will be over.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>‘But—Mammy Lila!’ gasped Liz.</p>
<p>‘Mammy Lila will do as I tell her, my
dear, and at all risks this child’s reputation
must be saved. Everything else is an
after consideration,’ replied the Doctor, as
he stumbled slightly, and saved himself
by catching at the back of a chair.</p>
<p>‘Father, are you ill?’ cried Lizzie
quickly, as she sprang to his assistance.</p>
<p>‘No, I think not; but I will take a
cordial, if you will mix it for me. I <i>must</i>
not be ill until this business is settled,
and Maraquita is safe under her parents’
roof again.’</p>
<p>‘But your hands are very cold, and you
are trembling all over. Surely you are
unfit for further work, and should go to
bed and rest. Father, trust her to me.
Don’t overtax your strength, for her sake.
You know that I am a careful and trustworthy
nurse.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>‘If I <i>die</i> in the effort, I will watch over
her myself, and without assistance!’ cried
the Doctor excitedly, as he drank the
draught she tendered him, and tottered
back to the sleeping-chamber.</p>
<p>Lizzie looked after him with the deepest
anxiety.</p>
<p>‘I am <i>sure</i> he is ill,’ she said to herself,
and if I am not very much mistaken, he
has the symptoms of the fever strongly
upon him. Oh, my poor father! is it
possible that when you need the attention
and skill you have bestowed on others,
you will sacrifice yourself for the sake of
this frail girl? Yes, I feel you will, even
should it result in your own death. And
I would have it so, though Heaven only
knows what I should do without you—sooner
than see you shrink from paying
off one tithe of the heavy debt you owe
to Maraquita’s father. But the bearing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>
of this heavy burden laid upon us! Did
Mr Courtney but know the weight of it,
he would surely acknowledge his forbearance
has not been in vain.’</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i109.jpg" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i110a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i110b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="T">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">T</span>HE overseer of Beauregard occupied
another bungalow on
the plantation, a perfect bower
of beauty, which, whilst lying close to
the White House, was entirely concealed
from observation by the glorious
foliage that environed it. Its wooden
walls were clothed in creepers, and surrounded
by tall cocoa palms, and feathery
bamboos and orange trees, with their
double wealth of fruit and flower. The
heavy perfumes by which the atmosphere
was laden would have proved too much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>
for any one but a man acclimatised to
the West Indies, but they suited the
sensuous, pleasure-loving nature of Henri
de Courcelles perfectly. As he sat, or
rather reclined, on a long bamboo lounge
in his verandah, with a cigar between
his lips, and his handsome eyes half
closed, he looked the picture of lazy
content. He was dressed in full white
trousers, and a linen shirt, thrown open
at the throat, round which a crimson
silk neckerchief was carelessly knotted.
His dark curling hair was thrown off
his brow, and his olive complexion was
flushed with the mid-day heat. His
work was over for the time being, and
he was free to rest and enjoy himself
until the sun went down. He had
been on horseback by six o’clock that
morning, riding round the coffee and
sugar plantations, keeping the coolies<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>
up to their work, and receiving the
complaints of, or distributing his orders
amongst, the men who worked under
him. The labourers on Beauregard had
long come to the conclusion that it was
lost time to prefer any request out of
the ordinary routine to Henri de Courcelles.
Charming as he was when in
the society of his equals, he was a stern
and implacable overseer, being quick to
find fault, and slow to extend forgiveness,
and having no sympathy whatever
with the people he ruled over. He
looked upon the negroes as so many
brute beasts out of which it was his
duty to get as much work as possible,
and he had often turned away with disgust
on encountering Lizzie Fellows
with a dusky baby on her lap, or with
her arm beneath the head of a dying
negress. He did not give vent to his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>
opinions in public. It would scarcely
have been safe, surrounded as he was
by the creatures he despised, and often
at their mercy; but they knew them,
all the same, and were ripe to seize the
first opportunity for revenge. Liz—with
her calm practical brain, and reflective
mind, should have seen for herself that
a man who could swear at an unoffending
coolie, or thrust a little child roughly
from his path, or strike his horse between
the ears with his hunting crop,
for no reason except to gratify a passing
temper, would never make a kind husband
or father. But the ancients never did
a wiser thing than to pourtray love
as blind. It blinds the cleverest of us
to mental as well as physical defects,
until some fatal day, the rose-coloured
glasses drop from our eyes, and we see
the man, or woman, love has idealised,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>
in their true colours. Liz saw some of
De Courcelles’ faults, it is true, and grieved
over them, but there was always some
extenuating circumstance for them in
her love-blinded eyes; and if there had
not been, it was only sufficient for her
lover to turn his glorious Spanish orbs
reproachfully on her, to bring her, metaphorically,
to his feet. Well, after all, perhaps,
if love were not foolish, and weak,
and blind, it would not be love at all,
but only prudence; and the majority of
us would fare badly enough if <i>some one</i> did
not see us through rose-coloured glasses.
It would be terrible to stand before the
world as we really are, in all the hideous
nakedness of our evil tempers, and inclinations,
and devices, and have no
sweet, generous, pitying, and all-believing
love somewhere to throw a cloak
above our mortal nature, and believe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>
that the making of a saint lurks behind
it.</p>
<p>Henri de Courcelles was thinking
somewhat self-reproachfully of Liz that
morning. The interview he had had
with her the night before haunted him
like a bitter taste when the draught is
swallowed. He knew he had lied to
her, and though the lie didn’t trouble
him, her complete belief in his sincerity
did. If we tell an untruth, and it is
fiercely combatted and denied by the
opposing party, we are apt to tell a
dozen more to uphold the first, until we
almost swear ourselves into believing it.
But if the falsehood is at once received
as truth, and believed in with the most
innocent faith, it makes us, if we have
any feeling left whatever, doubly ashamed
of ourselves. Henri de Courcelles had
quite ceased to love Liz Fellows—indeed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>
it is doubtful if he had ever loved her at
all—but he had admired and esteemed her,
and these very feelings had killed those
of a warmer nature. She was too good
for him—too far above him. She
humbled him every time she opened
her mouth. Maraquita Courtney was a
woman much more to his taste—sweet,
ripe, youthful Maraquita, with her outspoken
love and unbridled passion,—her
red lips and wreathing white arms, and
utter disregard of truth or principle.
But Monsieur de Courcelles had not
been easy about Maraquita lately. He
was perplexed and anxious. He did not
quite foresee how matters would turn
out, nor what prospect lay in the future
for them. He was somewhat ashamed
of the duplicity of which he had been
guilty to Liz Fellows, but he consoled
himself with the idea that it had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>
forced upon him by his relations with
Maraquita, and that it behoved him, as
a man of honour, to divert suspicion
from her, even at the risk of deceiving
another woman.</p>
<p>As he was dreaming and ruminating
on these things, he was surprised to see
Mr Courtney approaching the bungalow.
It was not the planter’s custom to visit
his overseer, and their business hours,
which were usually passed in the office
at the White House, were over for the
day. De Courcelles sprang to his feet
as his employer appeared, and proffered
his seat for his acceptance. Mr Courtney
sank into it without a word. He
did not seem uneasy, but he was certainly
unprepared to open the conversation.
De Courcelles was the first to
speak.</p>
<p>‘I suppose you have come to speak<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>
to me about Verney’s grant, sir. I
should have given you the papers to
sign this morning, but as you were
not in the office, I brought them away
with me again. Will you see them
now?’</p>
<p>‘No, no! They can wait till to-morrow,’
replied Mr Courtney impatiently.
‘Verney knows they are all right, and
the land is his. I was unable to attend
to business this morning, for I had a disturbed
night, and slept late in consequence.’</p>
<p>‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. What
disturbed you?’</p>
<p>‘The news has evidently not yet reached
you. Our poor Maraquita has been
dangerously ill.’</p>
<p>De Courcelles started, and changed
colour. His olive complexion turned to a
sickly yellow, and his brilliant eyes became
dull and lustreless. The planter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>
was not blind to the emotion he expressed.</p>
<p>‘Miss Courtney—ill?’ stammered the
overseer.</p>
<p>‘Yes, very ill, and with this terrible
fever. How she contracted it we are
unable to discover, but she left her bed,
and wandered in her delirium into the
plantation, and fortunately towards the
Doctor’s bungalow, where she now lies.
You may imagine what her mother and I
felt when we heard she was missing. I
thought Mrs Courtney would have gone
distracted. However, the first thing I
thought of was to ask for Dr Fellows’
assistance, and luckily we found her there,
but very, very ill.’</p>
<p>‘She <i>is</i> better, I hope?’ gasped De
Courcelles.</p>
<p>‘She <i>is</i> better, and, I thank God, out of
danger,’ replied Mr Courtney, looking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>
him steadfastly in the face, ‘and in a few
days we hope to have her at the White
House again. Lizzie Fellows, who has
been like a sister to her, is nursing her
with the greatest care. She is a most
estimable young woman, clever, courageous,
and thoroughly honest—good all round,
in fact, and will prove a treasure to any
man who is fortunate enough to win her.
By the way, De Courcelles, I have heard
a rumour that you are engaged to be
married to Miss Fellows. Is it true?’</p>
<p>The overseer stammered still more.</p>
<p>‘Yes—no—that is to say, sir, there
<i>has</i> been some idea of such a thing between
us, but nothing is definitely settled.’</p>
<p>Mr Courtney regarded the young man
sternly.</p>
<p>‘<i>Some idea!</i> Do you mean to tell me
that you would presume to trifle with the
girl, and hold out a prospect you have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>
no intention of fulfilling? Do you forget
that she is the daughter of one of my
oldest friends, and second only in my
affections to my own child? Dr Fellows
is not the man to permit any one to play
fast and loose with his daughter, and I
should be as ready as himself to take up
the cudgels in her behalf.’</p>
<p>‘Indeed, sir, there is no necessity for
such warmth on your part. You are
judging me without a hearing. Lizzie
and I perfectly understand each other.
We are the best of friends, but at present I
cannot see any prospect of our being more.’</p>
<p>‘You mean to say that your salary is
not sufficient to keep a wife upon?’</p>
<p>‘I have never looked on it in that light,
Mr Courtney. Miss Fellows is devoted
to her father and her profession, and we
have hardly spoken of the time when
she will be called upon to leave them.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>‘Then you ought to have done so,
Monsieur de Courcelles. A man has no
right to make love to a girl unless he can
talk of marriage to her. Now I have
more than an ordinary interest in Liz
Fellows, and if it is for her happiness to
marry you, I am ready to further your
plans. You need not wish to bring your
wife to a prettier home than the one you
now occupy; but I will engage to furnish
it afresh, and double your present salary on
the day you marry her. Will that bring
matters between you to a crisis?’</p>
<p>Henri de Courcelles shifted his feet, and
looked uncertain.</p>
<p>‘I am not sure, sir; you see, you are
precipitating them. Miss Fellows would
be as astonished as I am, if she could
overhear our present conversation. We
have never spoken of marriage as a necessary
contingency to our friendship.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>‘Then you don’t love the girl, and you
don’t intend to marry her?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t say that, Mr Courtney. It is
impossible to say what we may decide
upon in the future; but for the present,
I positively deny that we have any fixed
plans whatever.’</p>
<p>Mr Courtney looked dissatisfied for a
moment, then, with the air of a man who
has made up his mind to do a disagreeable
thing, he proceeded,—</p>
<p>‘Well! no one can settle these matters
satisfactorily, but the parties concerned,
and so I have no more to say about it.
But there is another subject uppermost
in my mind, which I feel I must mention
to you. It is a delicate one, which I
would much rather avoid, but I cannot
shirk my duty. I have been unable to
help observing, De Courcelles, that you
admire my daughter Maraquita. I can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>
hardly suppose you entertain any hopes
from that quarter, but if you do, you
must dismiss them at once, and for ever,
for I have quite different views for Miss
Courtney.’</p>
<p>The handsome young overseer had
flushed dark crimson during his employer’s
speech, but he did not immediately
reply to it.</p>
<p>‘I hope I may be mistaken,’ continued
Mr Courtney, ‘and I hope I have not
offended you by mentioning it, but I
have meant to do so for some time
past. Maraquita is a lovely girl. I
cannot help seeing that, though I am
her father, and doubtless you appreciate
her beauty, in common with many other
men; but it can never go any further.’</p>
<p>‘I have never presumed to think it
could,’ replied De Courcelles, with dry
lips, and a husky voice.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>‘It is not <i>you</i> to whom I have an
objection,’ said the planter, ‘it is to
any man who cannot give Maraquita
wealth and position. She is my only
child, and I have great ambition for
her; and I have already received a
flattering proposal for her hand, from
one of the highest men in the island.
Had it not been for this unfortunate
illness, I should have submitted his
letter to my daughter by this time.
But I have little doubt how she will
receive it. Meanwhile, I think it but
kind and just to let you know of my
intentions, and to warn you, should there
be any need of caution, to be careful.’</p>
<p>‘I thank you, Mr Courtney, for your
consideration,’ replied De Courcelles, in
the same hard dry voice, ‘but there is
no need of it. I hope I know my duty
and my position too well, to aspire to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>
Miss Courtney’s hand. No one can
help admiring her, nor being grateful
for any kindness she may extend to
them, but there it ends. You have
nothing to fear for me, nor I for myself.’</p>
<p>‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ replied
Mr Courtney, as he rose to go; ‘in a
few days I expect that you will hear
great news from the White House, and
see preparations for a grand wedding,
and then you will better understand my
fears lest all should not prosper with
my dear child, as I hope it may do.
Meanwhile, do not forget what I said
respecting Miss Fellows and yourself.
If I can forward your happiness, you
may count on my sympathy and assistance.’</p>
<p>And with these kindly offers of help
upon his lips, Mr Courtney walked away,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>
leaving Henri de Courcelles bewildered
by what he had heard. Maraquita ill,
and in the Doctor’s bungalow, with her
secret, perhaps, made patent to the world!
And yet her father evidently knew nothing,
and some one must have stood
her friend, and shielded her from discovery.
But Maraquita about to make
a high marriage, and be lost to him for
ever. That was a still more wonderful
revelation, and one which he found
it impossible to believe. Maraquita,
who had so often sat, during their
moonlight trysts, with her arms twined
about his neck, and assured him that
no man but himself should ever call
her his wife. Henri de Courcelles would
never have presumed, without a large
amount of encouragement, to lift his eyes
to his employer’s daughter. He knew
that his birth and his position would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>
both preclude him as a suitor, in Mr
Courtney’s mind, and that it would be
considered the height of presumption on
his part to make proposals of marriage
for her. But he had trusted to
Maraquita’s influence with her parents,
eventually to gain their cause; he had
trusted also to certain love passages
which had taken place between them,
to bind her effectually to himself. And
now the announcement of these intended
nuptials did not make him so unhappy
on his own account as they alarmed
him for their mutual safety. What might
not Maraquita say or do, in her dismay
at the prospect of being separated from
him?</p>
<p>Henri de Courcelles secretly acknowledged
his fickleness with regard to Liz
Fellows, who had loved him well and
constantly all along, and yet he could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>
not believe that any one else could be
unfaithful to him. The devil invents so
many excuses for us wherewith to cover
our own frailty, but they all disappear
when we are called upon to judge our
neighbour’s sin. As soon as Mr Courtney
had left him, Henri de Courcelles, feeling
very uncomfortable under the close examination
to which he had been subjected,
resumed his cigar, and his lounging
attitude, and lay for a long time pondering
over the morning’s interview. How much
did the planter suspect, or know? Had
his assumed warning been only a blind
to entrap his overseer into an open
confession, or surprise him into betraying
himself? De Courcelles blessed his lucky
stars that his self-control had not forsaken
him, and that if Mr Courtney
were on the lookout for a probable
lover for his daughter, he had wrung<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>
no hint of the truth from him. But
was the story of the fever true? That
was a point on which he felt he must
satisfy himself, and reaching down a
wide Panama hat, he proceeded at once
into the plantation. He looked handsome
enough, as he strolled leisurely
beneath the trees, towards the negro
quarters, the fine plaited straw hat,
which shaded his features, tipped jauntily
to one side, and a red rose in the button-hole
of his white drill jacket. But his
face looked perplexed and anxious, and
he gnawed his moustache as he went.
The negroes’ huts were situated half a
mile away from his bungalow, but they
were close to that of Dr Fellows, and De
Courcelles knew that in one place or
the other he should find Lizzie, and hear
the truth from her. But as he passed
her cottage, he caught sight of her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>
sitting at the window, sewing. Her
face was pale, and her eyes red. She
looked as if she had been both sitting
up and weeping, though her print dress
was fresh and dainty, and her glossy
hair carefully arranged. A fear shot
through the heart of Henri de Courcelles,
as he drew near her, but the
bright smile with which she welcomed
his presence, drove it away.</p>
<p>‘Why, Henri, what brings you here
so early?’ she asked, from the open
casement.</p>
<p>‘Didn’t I say last night that you
would see me again to-day?’ he answered,
as he took her hand.</p>
<p>‘Yes, but it is hardly wise of you
to walk about in the sun, unless there
is a necessity for it.’</p>
<p>‘You are right, Lizzie; but I am a
messenger from Mrs Courtney; she sent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>
me down for the last bulletin of her
daughter.’</p>
<p>Lizzie looked surprised.</p>
<p>‘How very strange! I sent up word
by one of the servants half an hour
ago!’</p>
<p>He felt then he had not lied quite
so cleverly as usual, but he got out of
it by saying,—</p>
<p>‘The brute has probably taken a
circuit of five miles, in order to attend
to his own business. You know what
these niggers are, Liz. However, give
me the last news of Miss Courtney, and
I will see it is delivered.’</p>
<p>Liz’s face grew very grave.</p>
<p>‘She is better, Henri. I have not
seen her this morning, but my father
tells me so, and that in a few days
she will be quite well. I have just
been making her some fish soup.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>‘Was she very bad with the fever?’
he asked.</p>
<p>‘Very bad indeed. It is lucky I
met her wandering about the plantation,
or I don’t know what might have
happened. But there is no need for
anxiety now. All danger is at an end.’</p>
<p>‘Were you with her in her delirium?
Did she—did she—<i>rave</i> much? I only
ask for curiosity. I have heard that
some of the negroes tried to destroy
themselves during the fever; and her
parents are very anxious still.’</p>
<p>‘Are they?’ said Liz carelessly. ‘I
thought my father had set their minds
entirely at rest. As I said before, there
is no occasion for it. Quita is quite
sensible now, and only needs to regain
her strength.’</p>
<p>Henri de Courcelles looked much relieved.
He drew a long breath, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>
straightened himself against the supports
of the verandah. Liz regarded
him for a moment, and then said, in a
low voice,—</p>
<p>‘I want to tell you something, Henri.
I have been thinking over what I
mentioned to you yesterday, and I feel
I did you an injustice. I can’t tell you
<i>how</i> the conviction has been forced
upon me—but it is there. Will you
forgive me for my causeless jealousy?
I have no excuse to offer for myself,
excepting that I love you, and I fear
to lose you.’</p>
<p>He only answered,—</p>
<p>‘I told you plainly you were wrong!’</p>
<p>‘I acknowledge it <i>now</i>, but <i>then</i>, I
thought only of what I had heard. But
I see how foolish I was. A long night
of reflection has shown it to me. The
illnesses and troubles of our friends<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>
are enough to make us think, Henri.
<i>We</i> might be struck down to-morrow,
and how doubly sad it would be to go
whilst any misunderstanding existed between
us and those whom we love.’</p>
<p>She spoke so plaintively that his
feelings were touched on her behalf.</p>
<p>‘There is something more the matter
with you, I am afraid, Liz, than mere
regret for such a trifle. Something
worse than that must have happened
to annoy you.’</p>
<p>‘No, no!’ she cried, in a voice of
terror; ‘nothing has happened, I assure
you, Henri; but life is uncertain, and
I may be sorry some day to think I
ever misjudged you. Things are not
always what they seem, you know, and
unexpected barriers rise sometimes to
foil the brightest hopes. Let us resolve
to be patient with each other, so that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>
we may have nothing to reproach ourselves
with if—if—anything should occur
to part us.’</p>
<p>The tears were standing in her patient
eyes as she raised them to his, and
the sight affected him. The man was
not wholly bad—none of us are—but
his senses drowned his better feelings.
He knew—even at that moment, when
his whole mind was fixed on Maraquita,
and full of fears for her safety—that
this woman was the more estimable of
the two, that she loved him the best,
and was the most worthy of love in
return. But his heart had gone astraying,
and he could not recall it at will.
He could only pat Liz’s hand, and
profess to laugh at her fears, all the
while he knew how well founded they
were.</p>
<p>‘Why, what should occur to part<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>
us?’ he answered lightly; ‘unless, indeed,
you elect to throw me over. But I
thought we had settled that point satisfactorily
last night, Liz?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, I was not thinking of <i>that</i>!’
she exclaimed hurriedly. ‘It was quite
another idea, and one of which there
is no need to speak of to you now,
for which, indeed, the necessity may
never arise. But we shall always be
<i>friends</i>, Henri—shall we not? true and
steadfast friends, whatever may occur?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t understand you. You are
speaking in enigmas to me,’ he said
petulantly, as he dropped the hand he
had taken in his own.</p>
<p>They were indeed playing at cross-purposes—she,
thinking only of the
story her father had told her, and he
of Maraquita and her possible revelations.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>Liz sighed, and redirected her attention
to her work. The same dissatisfied
feeling which she had experienced the
night before crept over her again, and
turned her sick and cold, and it was
not dispersed when Henri de Courcelles,
after an awkward silence, lifted his broad-brimmed
hat from his brow, and walked
gloomily away.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i138.jpg" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i139a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i139b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="A">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">A</span> WEEK had passed away since
Maraquita Courtney had entered
the Doctor’s bungalow,
and the moment that Liz dreaded had
arrived—they were to meet again.
Never once had she entered Quita’s
chamber during the period of her illness.
Dr Fellows had chosen the oldest, most
stupid, and most deaf negress on the
plantation to attend to his patient’s wants,
and sternly forbidden his daughter to
enter her presence. But to-day she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>
pronounced convalescent, or sufficiently
so to return to the White House,
and her parents, who were naturally
anxious to have her home again, had
arranged to fetch her away that afternoon.
Dr Fellows had said to his
daughter a moment before, on passing
through the sitting-room,—</p>
<p>‘Maraquita is up and dressed, and
will be with you in a short time. She
is still weak and nervous. Mind you
say nothing to upset her;’ and Liz had
promised, feeling almost as nervous at
the idea of the coming interview as
Quita herself could have done.</p>
<p>She had not to wait long. In a
few minutes the bedroom door opened,
and Maraquita, leaning on the arm
of the old negress, walked slowly into
the apartment. She was robed in a
white muslin gown. Her dark hair was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>
hanging loose upon her shoulders, and
her face was as white as her attire.
There was an ethereal look about the
girl that naturally excited pity, and the
scared expression on her features went
straight to Liz’s kindly heart. In a
moment she had sprung to her assistance.</p>
<p>‘You are still very weak, Quita. Are
you sure you feel equal to leaving your
room?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, yes, yes,’ replied the girl, in a
petulant tone, as if she did not like the
subject of her illness alluded to. ‘There
is nothing the matter with me now,
Lizzie. I could have returned home
two days ago, if your father would have
let me. I really think he is <i>too</i> particular.’</p>
<p>‘How <i>can</i> he be too particular where
<i>you</i> are concerned,’ said Lizzie gravely,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>
as she placed the trembling Quita on
the sofa. ‘Mr Courtney confided you
to his care, and trusted him to look
after you as if you were his own child,
and father has felt the charge to be a
sacred one.’</p>
<p>‘He is very good,’ replied Maraquita,
in a low voice; ‘but I have not been
so <i>very</i> ill, Lizzie, after all, and I am
all right again now. I hope nobody
will make a fuss about it.’</p>
<p>Liz was silent, for she did not know
what to reply. They had reached a
point where confidence came to a full
stop between them, and she could hardly
have spoken without perverting the
truth. So she tried to change the
subject.</p>
<p>‘How soon do you expect Mr and
Mrs Courtney to fetch you, Quita?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t know. I think the Doctor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>
has walked up to the house to tell them
I am ready. Mamma will be surprised
to find <i>you</i> didn’t nurse me, Liz. Why
didn’t you do so?’ inquired Quita nervously,
as if she wanted to find out how
much or how little of her secret had
been confided to her foster-sister’s discretion.</p>
<p>But she had not fathomed the depths
of Lizzie’s character. She had sworn
not to reveal what she knew, and she
would have been torn to pieces on the
rack without confessing it. It was useless
of Quita, or any other person, attempting
to force it from her.</p>
<p>‘Why didn’t I nurse you, Quita? Not
because I was unwilling; you may be
sure of that. Simply my father said he
did not wish me to do so, and that was
enough for me. I have been trained
to understand that the first duty of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>
medical assistant is implicit obedience.
I have full faith in my father’s discretion,
and know that he would not
lay one restriction on me that was unnecessary.
I can tell you no more than
that. Only believe that it was not my
own wish, and that if I <i>might</i> have nursed
you I gladly would.’</p>
<p>‘It was best not, or you might have
caught the fever. You know that I
have had a touch of the fever?’ continued
Quita interrogatively, but with
downcast eyes.</p>
<p>Liz could not answer ‘<i>Yes</i>.’</p>
<p>‘I heard my father tell Mr and Mrs
Courtney so,’ she said, after a pause.</p>
<p>Her reticence alarmed Maraquita. She
didn’t like Liz’s calm, collected manner
and short replies.</p>
<p>‘Well, I suppose your father doesn’t
tell lies,’ she answered brusquely.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>‘I have always believed him,’ said Liz
sadly. ‘But, Quita, you have talked
enough. Your face is quite flushed.
Keep quiet, like a good girl, or you
may not be able to return home with
your parents, and that will be a great
disappointment to them.’</p>
<p>She took up her work again, and
commenced sewing, whilst Quita lay still,
but with a palpitating heart, as she
wondered what Liz could have meant
by evading her question. Could she
have read her friend’s thoughts at that
moment, her curiosity would have been
satisfied, though not in the way she desired.
Liz was marvelling, with a feeling
of contempt, as she stitched industriously
at her calico, how any woman could
bring a child into the world, lawfully or
unlawfully, and think only of her safety
afterwards, without one thought for her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>
own flesh and blood; the flesh and
blood, too, of some one who <i>ought</i> to
be so much dearer to her than herself.
She sat there, nervously anticipating
every moment to feel Quita’s little
hand slip into hers, and to hear her
quivering voice ask for news of her
child.</p>
<p>Liz would have loved her a thousand
times more for the weakness. She would
have forgiven her all her frailty and
wickedness in one moment, and taken
her into her arms with a loving assurance
that her infant should be as carefully
guarded as the secret of its birth. But
no such appeal came from the young
mother. On the contrary, she seemed
anxious and worried about herself alone,
and the only excuse which Liz had been
able to conjure up for her sinfulness,
grew weaker and weaker with the passing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>
moments. But perhaps, thought Lizzie,
with her ever ready charity, perhaps
Quita had learned all she wished to
know from Dr Fellows, and her own
hasty judgment of her was a grievous
wrong. But both the girls felt there
was a barrier raised between their intercourse
that had never been there before,
and it was a relief to them to hear the
sing-song chant of the palanquin bearers
as they came through the grove to fetch
Maraquita away.</p>
<p>In another minute Dr Fellows appeared
upon the threshold, accompanied by Mr
and Mrs Courtney, and Quita was in
her parents’ arms. In their delight at
receiving her again, they almost forgot
to ask for any particulars concerning her
illness.</p>
<p>‘Oh, my dear child!’ exclaimed her
mother impressively, ‘I hope you have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>
thanked Dr Fellows as you should do
for all his attention to you. I don’t
believe anybody could have brought
you round so quickly as he has. Your
father and I were dining with the
Governor, Sir Russell Johnstone, last
evening, and he said that Dr Martin
of the Fort had told him no cases of
fever had been declared convalescent
under three weeks. And here you are,
you see, almost well again in a third of
the time.’</p>
<p>‘Not so fast, my dear madam,’ interposed
the Doctor. ‘As you are naturally
anxious to have her under your own
care, I can pronounce Miss Courtney
to be sufficiently recovered to be moved
to the White House, but I shall visit
her every day, and it will be some
weeks before she is completely off
the sick list. But she must eat as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>
much as she can, and do as little as
she need, and she will soon be strong
again.’</p>
<p>‘But if you think it would be more
prudent for her to remain here a little
longer under your care, my dear Fellows,
we are quite willing to leave her,’ said
Mr Courtney.</p>
<p>‘No, no!’ cried Quita, clinging to
her mother’s neck, and sobbing. ‘Take
me home, mamma! I am longing to get
away, and to be with you.’</p>
<p>‘That does not sound very grateful
in you, my dear,’ said her father, ‘considering
all that you owe to Dr Fellows,
and Lizzie.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t mention it!’ cried the Doctor
quickly. ‘She is weak, and nervous,
and hardly knows what she is saying,
and the worst thing in the world for
her is this agitation. She will be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>
much better under her mother’s care.
Take her home at once, Mr Courtney,
and let this exciting scene be
ended.’</p>
<p>He threw a mantle over Maraquita’s
shoulders as he spoke, and placed her
in the palanquin, which was in the
verandah. The bearers raised their
burden to their shoulders and set off
at a walking pace, the rest of the
party keeping by their side.</p>
<p>They had all been so occupied with
the removal of Maraquita, that they
had hardly noticed Lizzie, who stood
at the open window watching their departure.
So this was the end of it!
The last week had passed like an unholy
dream to her,—a dream of which
she had had no time to read the import
until now. Should she ever unravel it?
Would the tangled meshes which it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>
seemed to have woven round her, fall
off again to leave her free? She did
not see the way to burst her bonds,
but she resolved that she must know
the worst concerning herself and Henri
de Courcelles at once. She felt that
it would be impossible for her to live
on, and do her duty as it should be
done, whilst any moment might bring
an exposure to sever her from her
lover. She was still pondering on her
troubles when Dr Fellows slowly re-entered
the bungalow.</p>
<p>‘How did she bear the journey?’
asked Liz, as she caught sight of her
father. ‘She seemed to me too weak
to attempt it.’</p>
<p>‘So she would have been under ordinary
circumstances, but of two evils
we must choose the least. The poor
child’s life here was one of torture,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>
from the fear of detection. She will
feel safer at the White House, and
her recovery will be more rapid in
consequence.’</p>
<p>‘And meanwhile, she doesn’t care
one jot if her infant lives or dies,’ said
Liz contemptuously.</p>
<p>Dr Fellows regarded her with mild
surprise.</p>
<p>‘You are very hard on her, my
daughter. Cannot you make some allowance
for the terrible position in which
she is placed?’</p>
<p>‘I cannot understand it,’ she answered.</p>
<p>‘No, and you never will—thank God
for it. Your sense of right and wrong
is too clear to permit you to be led
astray. But this poor child is very
different in character from yourself. She
is weak, and foolish, and unprincipled,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>
and the scoundrel who has taken advantage
of her simplicity, should be
strung up at the Fort. It seems a
shame that, in order to protect her
good name, he should be allowed to
go unpunished. But perhaps you cannot
understand that also.’</p>
<p>‘Father, you mistake me!’ cried
Lizzie. ‘I can love, or I believe I
can, as fondly as any woman, and I
can well imagine the force of the temptation
which circumstances might bring
with it. God forbid that I should
judge any error that springs from too
much love, or consider myself beyond
its reach. But I <i>cannot</i> understand the
selfishness that makes a woman shrink
from the consequences of her sin, as
if it had no claim upon her. Where
is the father of this child? If I were
Quita, I would rather go out into the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>
world with my baby in my arms,
and beg from door to door by
<i>his</i> side, than run away as she
has done, and leave it to the care of
strangers.’</p>
<p>‘Hush, hush!’ exclaimed the Doctor
quickly, looking round them with a face
of fear. ‘Even the walls have ears.
Remember your oath, Lizzie, and never
mention this subject, coupled with her
name, again.’</p>
<p>‘Let me ask you at least, father, if
you have seen Mammy Lila.’</p>
<p>‘More than once, Lizzie, and all will
be right there, until I have time to decide
what is best to be done in the future.
But it will be a terrible puzzle, and I
must think it over gravely. I am ill
and weary at present, and would rather
leave things as they are for a month
or two.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>‘I, too, feel ill and weary,’ rejoined
Lizzie sadly. ‘I have not liked to
worry you with my own troubles whilst
you were attending on Quita, but now
that she is gone, father, I must ask you
one question. What am I to do with
regard to what you told me on the
night that she came here, and you extracted
that oath of secrecy from me?’</p>
<p>‘Do! What would you do?’ demanded
Dr Fellows, with a white face.</p>
<p>‘I don’t know. The knowledge seems
to have laid a burden on me too heavy
to be borne. Had I only myself to
consider, my task would be, comparatively
speaking, easy. I could take
care that I suffered alone. But there is
Monsieur de Courcelles; I must consider
him.’</p>
<p>‘What has De Courcelles to do with
it?’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>‘Father, how can I contemplate a
marriage with him without first telling
him the truth? Am I to leave it to
chance whether he finds out or no that—that
you did what you told me? I
could not do it. Such a life would kill
me. I will marry no man unless he
knows the whole story.’</p>
<p>‘Would you betray my confidence?’
exclaimed Dr Fellows bitterly. ‘Have
my long years of secret sorrow
and humiliation not been sufficient
punishment for me, but that my
child will hold me up to public
degradation?’</p>
<p>‘No, no, father; do not say that!
Not a word that you uttered shall ever
pass my lips without your free consent.
I will do anything rather than repeat
them. I will even give up—Henri de
Courcelles.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>‘And would that break your heart, my
dear?’</p>
<p>‘Never mind if it breaks my heart!’
she cried, with a sudden storm of weeping;
‘if it must be, it must be, and there
is no alternative. I love him too well
to deceive him, and I love you too well
to betray you. It is no one’s fault—it
is only my misfortune; but I must
end it at once and for ever, or it will
get the better of me. To-morrow I will
tell Henri de Courcelles that our engagement
is at an end.’</p>
<p>‘Do nothing in a hurry,’ replied her
father wearily. ‘Be patient for a few
days, Lizzie, and we may think of some
way out of this dilemma. You owe it
to Monsieur de Courcelles as well as to
yourself—’</p>
<p>At this moment a young negress, with
a yellow handkerchief bound about her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>
woolly head, and the tears running down
her black cheeks, hastily entered the
bungalow.</p>
<p>‘Massa Fellows,’ she cried, ‘I bring
berry bad news. Poor Mammy Lila
gone to heaven! Mammy took sick
with fever last night, and no one to
send for Doctor but me, and I got de
chile to tend. So Mammy say, “Gib
me pepper pot, and I all right to-morrow;”
but morning time Mammy go
home. And Aunty Cora come and stay
by her, and she tell me take dis chile
back to Dr Fellows, ’cause Mammy Lila
dead, and dis nigger must go home to
her fader and moder.’</p>
<p>‘Why, it’s Judy, Mammy Lila’s grandchild,
and she has brought the infant
back again!’ exclaimed Liz, as she saw
the bundle in the girl’s arms.</p>
<p>‘Mammy Lila gone! Here’s a misfortune<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>
to upset all our plans,’ said the
Doctor.</p>
<p>‘Father, what are we to do?’</p>
<p>‘We can do nothing but keep the
child here—at all events for a few hours,
Liz. I know of no one else to take
charge of it, or, at least, no one whom
I could trust. To-morrow I will go
over to the Fort and consult Dr Martin;
but for the present it must remain
with you, and I will take this girl back
to Shanty Hill, to see that she speaks
to no one in the plantation. Here,
Judy, give the baby to Miss Liz, and
you shall go back to Shanty Hill
with me. Are you <i>sure</i> that Mammy
Lila is gone?’</p>
<p>‘Sure, massa! Why, she cold as a
stone, and Uncle Josh making her coffin
already. The last words she sez was,
“Take chile back to Doctor, and say<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>
Mammy can’t do no more;” and den
she lay her head down and shut her
eyes, and I run for Aunty Cora, and
she say Mammy dead as a door nail.’</p>
<p>‘All right, Judy. I’m very sorry to
hear it, but I’ll go back with you all
the same.’</p>
<p>He reached down his hat and stick as
he spoke, and turned to his daughter
before he left the room.</p>
<p>‘I’ll be back in an hour or two, Liz.
Take the child into the inner room,
and don’t leave the house till I return.
I didn’t know the fever had reached
Shanty Hill. I must see some sanitary
precautions carried out there.’</p>
<p>The young negress placed the infant
in Lizzie’s outstretched arms.</p>
<p>‘You’ll be glad to get it back again,
I guess,’ she said slyly, as she deposited
it there.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>‘I’m not so sure of that,’ replied Liz,
taking no further notice of the remark,
as she carried her burden tenderly
away.</p>
<p>She placed it on the bed, and carefully
unfolded the wrappings round it.
She had a natural curiosity to see the
little creature born of one so near and
dear to her, even though it had no title
but to a heritage of shame. And when
she saw it, the maternal instinct so
strong in the breasts of all good and
pure women rose like a fountain in her
heart, and overflowed for the poor
motherless and fatherless baby thrown
so unexpectedly upon her care.</p>
<p>Maraquita’s little daughter was a tiny,
fragile-looking thing, with large dark
eyes and a waxen complexion, and a
wistful, solemn expression, as if she were
asking the cold world not to spurn her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>
for her parents’ fault. The first view
of her touched Lizzie deeply. She
hardly knew herself why she cried like
a child at the sight of those tiny hands
and feet, those grave, wondering eyes,
and the head of soft, dark hair that
nestled against her bosom. But the
best feelings of her nature rose to the
surface, and her first idea was that she
could never part with the child again,
but would tend and rear it for Maraquita’s
sake. But when she confided
her wishes to Dr Fellows, he shook his
head in dissent.</p>
<p>‘It would never do, Lizzie. It would
be too great a risk,’ he said. ‘The
child’s presence here would excite general
curiosity. The talk would reach Maraquita’s
ears, and its proximity would
unsettle her—perhaps cause her to betray
herself. There is only one safe course<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>
to pursue in these unhappy cases, and
that is, complete separation. Take care
of the poor little creature to-night for
me, and to-morrow I will ride over to
the Fort, and see if Dr Martin knows
of any trustworthy woman to take charge
of it. The regiment is to be relieved
next month. If I can get the child
shipped off to England, I shall consider
it the most fortunate circumstance that
could befall it, unless indeed it would
die first, which would be still better.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, father!’ cried Liz reproachfully,
as she laid her lips against the baby’s
velvet cheek.</p>
<p>‘It sounds hard, my dear, but it can
inherit nothing but a life of shame and
loneliness, and it would be very merciful
of God to take it. You don’t know
what it is to live under the crushing
sense of shame. Besides, it is a weakly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>
infant, and under any circumstances is
not likely to make old bones.’</p>
<p>‘I believe that I could rear it, with
care and attention,’ repeated Liz, wistfully.</p>
<p>‘It is impossible,’ repeated the Doctor
briefly, as he left the room.</p>
<p>But in a few minutes he returned,
and walked up to where his daughter
was still crooning over the baby.</p>
<p>‘Lizzie, I have been thinking over
your wish to tell Henri de Courcelles
my story. But it must not be, my dear—not
at least during my lifetime. You
will be angry with me for saying so,
but I don’t quite trust De Courcelles.
We have never got on well together.
There is something about him I don’t
understand. If I should die, Lizzie,
and sometimes I think it won’t be long,
first, you can do as you think fit, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>
whilst I live, I hold you to your promise
of secrecy.’</p>
<p>‘And I will keep it,’ replied Lizzie,
‘as if it had been made to God.’</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i165.jpg" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i166a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i166b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="M">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">M</span>R and Mrs Courtney could not
sufficiently express their satisfaction
at receiving their daughter
back again. Maraquita was their only
child. She had never had a brother nor a
sister. All their hopes were centred in
her, and in their love they naturally
exaggerated her beauty, and were blind
to her faults. Her father positively
idolised her, and her mother’s affection,
though rather languid and uneffusive,
was none the less real. Had Mrs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>
Courtney exercised a proper <i>surveillance</i>
over her daughter, Quita could never
have suffered the misfortune she had
just undergone; but it was not in her
indolent Spanish nature to look after
anything. She had had a suspicion of
Maraquita’s condition, but it was only
a suspicion, although the old black
nurse Jessica had known it for months
past. But Jessica had suckled Maraquita
from the moment of her birth, and
attended on her every hour of the day
and night since, and would have died
sooner than have brought one word of
blame on the head of her young mistress.
She had not even let the girl know that
she had guessed her terrible secret, and
so Maraquita returned to her father’s
house with as proud a bearing as if
she had done nothing to forfeit the
esteem of her fellow-creatures, and quite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>
ready to accept all the homage paid to
her. She was carried straight from her
palanquin to a room redolent of flowers,
and laid upon a couch, whilst the household
servants ran hither and thither,
to bring her refreshment, or to do her
service.</p>
<p>Old Jessica was weeping for joy
at the foot of her couch to think
she had got her young mistress safely
back again, and Mr and Mrs Courtney
were almost as effusive in their gratitude
for their good fortune. Meanwhile
Maraquita lay there, lovely and
languid, pleased to see how much
pleasure she gave them by her recovery,
and without a blush of shame
to remember how that recovery had
been attained. Hers was a frivolous,
unthinking nature—easily scared by the
approach of danger, but ready to forget<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>
everything that was not immediately before
her. She was a very common type
of our fallen humanity, intensely selfish,
and only disturbed by the misfortunes
that threatened herself. And now,
she believed that she was safe. Her
secret was known only to the Doctor,
and he had promised her, for her
father’s sake, that it should never rise
up against her. So she reclined there,
smiling, with one white hand clasped
in that of her father’s, and a bunch of
orange blossoms—emblems of woman’s
purity—with which Jessica had presented
her, laid against her cheek.</p>
<p>‘How lovely our Quita is looking!’
exclaimed Mrs Courtney, who was rocking
herself in a cane chair opposite,
whilst a negress fanned her with a
large palm leaf. ‘I really think her
illness has improved her. She was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>
rather sallow before it. What would
Sir Russell Johnstone say if he could
see her now.’</p>
<p>‘Sir Russell Johnstone,’ repeated Quita,
whilst Mr Courtney glanced at his wife
with a look of warning.</p>
<p>‘Yes, dear, the new Governor! Your
father and I have seen a good deal of
him lately, and he always inquires most
particularly after you.’</p>
<p>‘Nita, my dear,’ interposed Mr Courtney,
‘you must not forget that our
child is still far from strong, and that
Fellows cautioned us against any excitement.’</p>
<p>‘I don’t believe that pleasurable excitement
can hurt any one, Mr Courtney,
but if you think it desirable, I will
drop the subject.’</p>
<p>‘No, no, mother, pray go on. What
was it you were going to say? I want<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>
to hear all your news. It seems as if
I had been shut up so long. Tell me
everything you can think of about Sir
Russell, and—and—our other friends.
It will do me good to listen.’</p>
<p>‘Sir Russell will have a great deal
to say to you himself by-and-by I expect,
Maraquita,’ continued her mother,
‘and he will want us to take you up
to see Government House. It is such
a beautiful place. You have not seen
half of it at the balls. And the furniture
is something superb. It will be
a happy woman who is fortunate enough
to be chosen to reign over it.’</p>
<p>‘Is Sir Russell going to marry, then,
mamma?’</p>
<p>‘He wishes to do so, Quita.’</p>
<p>‘And is the lady in San Diego?’</p>
<p>‘He has told your father so, my
dear.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>‘Quita,’ exclaimed Mr Courtney, as
the girl turned her lustrous eyes upon
him, ‘cannot you guess the truth?
Sir Russell Johnstone is almost as
eager for your recovery as we are. He
has proposed to me for your hand, and
he is impatient to have your answer.’</p>
<p>‘Sir Russell Johnstone, the Governor
of San Diego, wants to marry <i>me</i>!’
said Maraquita, in a dazed voice.</p>
<p>‘Yes, my dear. It is a great honour,
but I will not have you biassed,’ returned
her father. ‘You shall do exactly
as you like about it.’</p>
<p>‘Sir Russell?’ repeated Quita, in the
same dreamy tone. ‘But he is so
old, and so ugly.’</p>
<p>‘<i>Old!</i>’ cried Mrs Courtney. ‘Why,
child, you are raving! He is not a
day over forty, and a very good-looking
man, although somewhat bald. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>
that has nothing to do with the matter.
It is the position you must look at,
and the honour of the thing. Fancy
being Lady Russell, and at the head
of all the ladies of San Diego, and
then going, by-and-by, to live in
England, and see all the sights of
London, and the Queen, perhaps, and
the Royal Family. Why, that chance
alone would be worth all the rest, in
my estimation!’</p>
<p>‘Nita! I won’t have our daughter
persuaded to do anything against her
inclinations.’</p>
<p>‘Dear me, Mr Courtney, I am not
trying to persuade her! I am only
showing her the proper way in which
to consider Sir Russell’s proposal. Why,
he’s the highest match in the island,
and Quita will never get such another
chance if she lives to be a hundred!’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>‘That’s true enough,’ replied her husband,
‘but she shouldn’t marry the
Prince of Wales himself, if she hadn’t
a fancy for him, whilst I have the
money to keep her.’</p>
<p>‘But stop, father,’ interrupted Quita,
‘there is no harm in talking it over
with mother, and I like to talk of
it. It’s a great compliment, isn’t it?
I wonder whatever made Sir Russell
think of me?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, my dear girl, don’t talk such
nonsense!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney.
‘You <i>must</i> know how pretty you are,
even if nobody’s told you so, and that
there’s not another woman in San
Diego can compare with you. Sir Russell
has got a pair of eyes in his head
like other men, and he sees you will
make the handsomest Governor’s lady
in the West Indies. And so you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>
will, though it’s your mother says
it.’</p>
<p>Maraquita was evidently much impressed
by the news which had been
told her. She lay quiescent on her
sofa, but her large eyes were gazing
into space, and a faint rose flush had
mounted to her face.</p>
<p>‘Do you think he is <i>sure</i> to take
me to England?’ she inquired, after a
pause.</p>
<p>‘Why, naturally, my love, when his
three years’ term is over here. And
he tells me he has a lovely place in
the country there, and he’s a Member
of Parliament into the bargain, and
knows all the grandest people in London.
Why, you would live like a queen,
and be the luckiest woman in the
world.’</p>
<p>‘And <i>we</i> should have to part<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>
with her,’ said Mr Courtney, with a
sigh.</p>
<p>‘Well, I suppose that would come
some day, in any case,’ replied his
wife, ‘and there’ll be plenty of time
to think of it. Sir Russell has only
been in office six months, and by the
time his term is ended, I don’t see
why <i>we</i> shouldn’t visit England too,
Mr Courtney. You’ve promised to take
me there, times out of mind.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, yes! unlikelier things have
happened,’ said her husband, brightening
up.</p>
<p>‘And I should have a splendid wedding,
shouldn’t I?’ mused Maraquita.</p>
<p>‘You should have the grandest wedding
that’s ever been seen in San Diego,’
replied her mother, ‘and everybody in
the island, black and white, to see it.
It would be a universal holiday, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>
we would send for your wedding dress
to Paris, Quita. Monsieur de Courcelles
was telling me the other day that—’</p>
<p>But Mrs Courtney was summarily
stopped in her recital by a burst of
hysterical tears from Maraquita.</p>
<p>‘Oh, no! I can’t do it; I don’t like
him enough,’ she sobbed. ‘He is old
and ugly. I <i>won’t</i> marry him. Don’t
say any more about it.’</p>
<p>Of course both her parents were full
of concern for her agitation.</p>
<p>‘I told you how it would be!’ exclaimed
the father. ‘She is far too weak to hear
so exciting a topic. You should have
held your tongue till she is stronger, and
able to decide the matter herself. Don’t
cry, my dearest child. Try and compose
yourself, or I shall be obliged to summon
Dr Fellows.’</p>
<p>‘You should have more sense,’ said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>
her mother decidedly. ‘No one wishes
you to do anything that is objectionable
to you, Quita. There is nothing to cry
for at having a grand proposal made
you. However, let us drop the subject
for to-day, and perhaps you had better
lie down in your own room and have
a siesta. Jessica has prepared it for
you.’</p>
<p>The two women supported the girl
between them to her sleeping-chamber,
when Mrs Courtney despatched the black
nurse for some iced lemonade.</p>
<p>‘Quita,’ she whispered, as she lifted
her daughter on to the bed, ‘you haven’t
deceived me? There is a mystery about
this illness of yours which may ruin your
whole life. Take my advice, my dear,
and marry Sir Russell Johnstone. It
will be your salvation.’</p>
<p>‘But, mother,’ whispered Maraquita back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>
again, with her face hidden in her mother’s
sleeve, ‘there—there is <i>some one else</i>.’</p>
<p>‘Do you suppose I don’t know that,
and that I needn’t go far to find him,
either, Quita? But no woman ever
married yet, my dear, without there being
“<i>some one else</i>.” But he will be no
good to you, and you must forget him
as soon as you can. You’ve made a fool
of yourself, and your only remedy lies
in marriage; but you can’t marry <i>him</i>.
Your father would never hear of such
a thing. He looks high for you, and he
has a right to do so. He would as soon
consent to your marrying Black Sandie
as—as—’</p>
<p>‘Hush, mother!’ cried Maraquita.
‘Don’t speak his name: I cannot bear
it.’</p>
<p>‘He has behaved like a villain to you,
my dear, and you ought to despise him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>
for it. It is only for your sake that I
have not had him turned off the plantation.
But if I hold my tongue, you
must promise to think well over the
advantages of Sir Russell’s proposal.’</p>
<p>‘I will—I will—’</p>
<p>‘It is a perfect godsend, and you would
be a fool to reject it. I can’t understand
your being so upset over a piece of good
fortune,’ said Mrs Courtney, as she bent
over her. ‘I hope—I <i>hope</i>, Maraquita,
that you won’t let this folly interfere
with it.’</p>
<p>She said so meaningly, for she had
not failed to observe the manner in
which the young overseer and Maraquita
had looked at each other on the
occasions of Henri de Courcelles’ visits
to the White House. Her daughter
flushed slightly, and turned her head
away.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>‘Of course not,’ she answered pettishly.
‘But if I did, what of it, mamma? My
father says I am not to be biassed in
my inclinations, and that means I may
choose for myself.’</p>
<p>‘So long as you choose an eligible
person, Maraquita; but you quite mistake
your father if you imagine he will
consent to your marriage with any one
beneath yourself. He is very particular
on that score. You are our only child,
and will inherit all his fortune, and you
have a right to make a good match.
Now, pray, my dear, don’t be foolish.
All girls have their little fancies, you
know, but they learn to get over them,
and you must do the same, won’t
you?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t know what you are talking
about, mamma,’ replied Quita uneasily.
‘All I have to think about now, I suppose,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>
is whether I shall marry Sir Russell
Johnstone or not.’</p>
<p>‘My dear girl, you make me miserable
by even suggesting a doubt on the
subject. I am sure of one thing,—if
you <i>don’t</i> marry him, you will never
cease to reproach yourself, and be
ready to die of envy at seeing
Mademoiselle Julie Latreille or one of
the other San Diego belles in your
place.’</p>
<p>‘<i>Julie Latreille!</i>’ cried Maraquita.
‘Why, she can’t hold a candle to me!
Every one said so at the last regimental
ball.’</p>
<p>‘Of course she can’t, dear, and she
wouldn’t know how to conduct herself
as the Governor’s lady either. But when
a man is disappointed in one direction,
he is apt to try and console himself in
another. And Sir Russell is <i>very</i> much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>
in love with you, Maraquita; I never
saw a man more so.’</p>
<p>‘Well, he won’t expect me to be in
love with him, I hope.’</p>
<p>‘What a silly thing to say, my dear!
If you will only consent to marry him,
I’ll guarantee that Sir Russell will be
satisfied with anything you may choose
to give him. Of course, you will be
very grateful to him, and kind and
affectionate and all that,’ continued Mrs
Courtney as an afterthought; ‘but it
is quite unnecessary that any young
lady should profess to be in love with
her husband. You can leave all that to
the men.’</p>
<p>Maraquita sighed, and said nothing.
She possessed a very warm temperament,
like most people born of a mixture of
bloods, and the prospect of being tied
to a man for whom she did not care,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>
was most displeasing to her. Her
thoughts reverted to another lover, whom
a marriage with the Governor would
force her to give up, and the tears
gathered in her eyes and rolled slowly
down her cheeks.</p>
<p>‘Come, my dear,’ exclaimed her
mother hastily, as she watched the
signs of her emotion, ‘we will drop
this subject for to-day, and you must
try and go to sleep. In a short time
you will see all the advantages of Sir
Russell’s proposal, and be very grateful
for them. But at present you are weak,
and must not think too much. I will
leave you alone now, and Jessica shall
fan you to sleep.’</p>
<p>But it was very little sleep that
visited Maraquita’s eyes that day, and
it was in vain that old Jessica closed
the green jalousies over her windows,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>
and brought her cooling drinks, and
fanned her incessantly to keep off the
flies. Quita’s large dark eyes were
fixed upon space, whilst she revolved
the question in her mind whether she
could possibly marry Sir Russell Johnstone,
and always came back to the
conclusion that it was impossible. When
night arrived, her mother was so distressed
to find the symptoms of fever
strong upon her, that she wanted
to send at once for Dr Fellows,
but Quita entreated her not to do
so.</p>
<p>‘Mamma, dear, let me have my own
way, and I shall be all right in the
morning. Let me sleep quite alone.
Jessica fidgets me. She jumps up
twenty times in the night to see if I
am asleep or want anything, and when
she sleeps herself she snores. She is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>
a good old creature, but I’d rather be
left to myself.’</p>
<p>‘But, Quita, my dear, supposing you
should be ill in the night, and no one
near you!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney.
‘Why, I shouldn’t be able to sleep
myself for thinking of it. Let <i>me</i> sleep
in the next room to yours, my darling.
The curtain can be drawn over the
open door, and you will be as much
alone as if it were shut. And I should
be within call if you required me.’</p>
<p>‘No, no,’ replied the girl fretfully.
‘That would be worse than having
Jessica in my room, for I should
never be certain <i>when</i> you were coming.
I want to be <i>alone</i>, mother—really
and truly <i>alone</i>—and when the darkness
falls, I shall sleep soundly.’</p>
<p>‘Very well, my dear,’ said Mrs
Courtney. ‘If it is your whim, you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>
shall be indulged in it, but I shall
not dare tell your father that I have
consented, or he will insist on sitting up
with you himself.’</p>
<p>She kissed her daughter then, and
professed to leave her for the night,
but she whispered to old Jessica that
after she had prepared everything that
was necessary, she was to lie down
on the mat outside the door of Maraquita’s
chamber, and listen to every
sound that issued from it.</p>
<p>The old negress obeyed with alacrity.
She possessed the faculty, common to
coloured people, of staying awake for
hours if necessary, and even of sleeping
with one eye open. The inner
door of her young mistress’s apartment
opened on a corridor, paved with
marble, but there were two other doors
to it which led out to the garden.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>
Jessica sat down on a white bear-skin
mat in the corridor, and listened for a
possible summons. The night drew on
apace. The lamps were extinguished
throughout the White House, and the
master and mistress had retired to rest.
The coloured servants were sleeping on
mats in the verandahs, and everything
was hushed in silence, when midnight
struck from the large clock over the
stables. The old negress’s eyes were
just about to close in slumber, when
she was startled into consciousness
again by the fall of a light footstep
on the matted bedroom floor. Maraquita
had left her bed. Jessica sat up
straight and listened. The light step
became more palpable. Quita had put
on her shoes and stockings, and was
passing through the door that led to
the plantation. Quick and stealthy as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>
a panther, and almost as noiselessly,
old Jessica crept round another way,
just in time to see a dark-robed form
walking down the path towards the
overseer’s bungalow.</p>
<p>‘I thinking so,’ mused the old woman;
‘I <i>sure</i> dat man at de bottom of it!
Curse him! He’s stolen away my poor
missy’s heart, and brought her into all
dis trouble, and now she’s out of it,
she can’t rest without him. Ah, if the
massa only knew, he’d <i>kill him</i>. And
<i>I’ll</i> kill him if he don’t let my missy
alone. I’ll make him drink obeah water
and he shall die. My poor little missy
to go through all dis trouble for a
man who don’t care for her no more
than he do for Jerusha. If I only tell
Jerusha! <i>Dat</i> would finish him once
and for ever.’</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Maraquita (for it was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>
indeed she) was making what haste she
could towards her lover’s home. She
felt very weak as she tried to walk,
and her limbs trembled under her, but
she would not give in, for her reputation
was at stake, and what will a
woman <i>not</i> do to save her good name?
Henri de Courcelles’ study or room of
business was at the back of the bungalow,
and he was in the habit of sitting
up there late into the night, reading.
Well did the poor girl know her way
to that room at the back of the house—well
did she know her lover’s habits
and customs—too well, unfortunately, for
her own peace of mind. Henri de
Courcelles was surprised and delighted—but
not startled—when her slight
form passed through the open door,
and stood before him. He knew that
she would come to him as soon as she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>
was able, but he had hardly expected
she would have been able to do so
so soon. He leapt from his chair and
clasped her in his arms.</p>
<p>‘Quita, my darling,’ he exclaimed,
‘you have returned to me at last!’</p>
<p>The girl did not speak, but she
clung to his embrace as if she would
never leave it.</p>
<p>‘You are trembling, my dearest!
You were imprudent, perhaps, to risk
visiting me so soon. Sit down, and let
me lie at your feet and hear all you
have to tell me.’</p>
<p>He placed her in the chair from
which he had risen, as he spoke, and
threw himself on his knees beside
her.</p>
<p>‘Do you know what I have suffered
during your illness?’ he exclaimed. ‘I
thought the suspense would have driven<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>
me mad. And then the awful fear
lest you should betray yourself. But
tell me, Quita, is all danger over? Is
our secret safe?’</p>
<p>‘Yes!’ she answered wearily. ‘It is
over.’</p>
<p>‘Thank Heaven for that! And no
one is the wiser.’</p>
<p>‘No one except Dr Fellows, of course.
I couldn’t deceive <i>him</i>. But even
Liz does not know. No one knows
except him—and you and me.’</p>
<p>‘And the child, dearest. Where is
it?’</p>
<p>The girl gave a sudden gesture of
repugnance.</p>
<p>‘Don’t speak of it: I cannot bear
the thought. I am trying so hard to
forget everything. And yet, Henri, I
<i>must</i> speak, for this once only. Dr
Fellows has sent it away to some one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>
up the hills, but I shall never be happy
till it is out of San Diego. Cannot
you manage it for me? Can’t you
send it away to America or England,
so that I may never hear it spoken of
again?’</p>
<p>‘Perhaps you would like me to drop
it in the sea,’ he answered gloomily.
It cannot be pleasant for a man to
hear a woman express nothing but
horror of the child she has borne to
him.</p>
<p>‘I don’t know <i>what</i> I want,’ rejoined
Quita sadly, ‘only I am so frightened
of what may happen. If my father
should ever come to hear of it, I think
he would <i>kill</i> me.’</p>
<p>‘No one shall molest you!’ exclaimed
De Courcelles sternly. ‘You are my
wife, Quita, and the man who injures
you must answer for it to me.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>‘Ah, don’t talk nonsense!’ she said,
shrinking a little from him. ‘You know,
Henri, that I am <i>not</i> your wife.’</p>
<p>‘But why should you not be so,
Maraquita? Why not take the bull by
the horns, and let me confess everything
to your father?’</p>
<p>‘What are you thinking of?’ she cried,
in a voice of terror. ‘You would only
bring down his wrath upon my head. He
will never consent to my marrying you.’</p>
<p>‘Then marry me without his consent,
Quita. Surely that should not be distasteful
to you, after all that has passed
between us. Come, dearest, you love
me, do you not? You have so often
assured me so. Why not cross with
me to Santa Lucia, and we will break
the news of our marriage to your parents
from there. Say “<i>Yes</i>,” Maraquita, for
the sake of our child,’ he whispered.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>‘It is <i>impossible</i>!’ she said back again.
‘You are asking me to give up my
father and mother for you. It would
break their hearts. They would never
speak to me again.’</p>
<p>‘But why not? They are wealthy,
and you are their only child. They
can enrich any one on whom your
happiness may be placed. They would
be angry at first, naturally, but they
would soon come round, for they could
not live without you, Maraquita. A
few weeks would see us all together
again.’</p>
<p>‘You are mistaken, Henri. My father
loves me dearly, but his prejudices are
very strong. Only to-night, my mother
was telling me that he would never
countenance my marriage to any one
whom he did not consider an equal
match to myself.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>‘Heavens! Maraquita! Can Mrs Courtney
suspect anything?’</p>
<p>‘God knows! She has not actually
mentioned the subject to me, but her
words fell very much like a warning.
Perhaps they were so. Perhaps she
intended to caution me on my future
conduct. She has at any rate shown
me very decidedly that my father expects
me to accede to the views he has
formed for me.’</p>
<p>De Courcelles turned pale.</p>
<p>‘What views?’ he stammered. ‘Mr
Courtney gave me some hints the other
day that you were likely to make a
grand marriage, but I felt—I <i>knew</i>, that
it could not be true.’</p>
<p>‘But it <i>is</i> true, Henri. Sir Russell
Johnstone, the Governor of the island,
has proposed for me, and my father insists
on my accepting him.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>‘And you <i>will</i>?’ cried De Courcelles,
in a voice of anguish.</p>
<p>‘What am I to do?’ asked Maraquita
wildly. ‘Can I go to my parents
and tell them I have disgraced
myself? How would that benefit
us? I have already told you they
would never consent to my marrying
<i>you</i>. And <i>this</i> marriage will, at
all events, shelter me from any risk
in the future. No one will be able
to harm me when I am the Governor’s
wife.’</p>
<p>‘You will do it!’ exclaimed Henri
de Courcelles fiercely; ‘I feel that you
<i>will do it</i>!’</p>
<p>At that moment he saw the girl in
her true colours—selfish, avaricious and
worldly-minded, yet, with the insane
blindness of passion, he would have
wrested her from the hands of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>
rival, even though his victory bound
him to a life-long curse. His Nemesis
had already overtaken him. He had
seized his prey, but he could not hold
it. He had made Maraquita (as he
fondly believed) his own. In doing so,
he had outraged every law of morality
and friendship. He had even thrown
over Liz Fellows, whom he knew loved
him so purely and truly, and yet his
sins had been sinned in vain. Quita
no more belonged to him than the
plantation of Beauregard did. She was
straining at her fetters even now, and
before long she would burst them altogether,
to become the wife of the
Governor of San Diego. As the truth
struck home to him, De Courcelles’
pain turned to anger.</p>
<p>‘You cannot! You <i>dare not</i>!’ he continued.
‘You are in my power, Maraquita,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>
and I defy you to throw me
over.’</p>
<p>Then her bravado changed to craven
fear. She could lie and deceive, and
be selfish and ungrateful, this beautiful
piece of feminine humanity, but she was
a terrible coward, and her lover’s Spanish
eyes were gleaming on her like two
daggers.</p>
<p>‘Ah, don’t be angry with me, Henri!’
she exclaimed pitifully. ‘You know how
much I love you. Haven’t I given
you good proof of my affection? Do
you think it possible that I could
marry any one else of my own free
will?’</p>
<p>‘Then you will never marry any one
else, Maraquita, for you shall not be
coerced into it whilst I live. But I
don’t feel sure of you yet. Will you
promise me, if the Governor’s suit is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>
pressed more closely upon you, to save
yourself by flying with me?’</p>
<p>‘I will!—on one condition, Henri.’</p>
<p>‘What is it?’</p>
<p>‘That you will shelter me from the
shame you have brought upon me. <i>I</i>
dare not do anything in the matter,
but you are cleverer than I am, and
may manage it without detection. Only
get <i>it</i>—you know what I mean—sent
away from San Diego, or devise
some plan by which it can never be
brought in judgment against me, and
I—I—will do anything you ask
me.’</p>
<p>‘You give me your solemn word to
that effect?’</p>
<p>‘My solemn word, Henri,’ she answered,
with downcast eyes.</p>
<p>‘Then it shall be done—if I have
to steal it away with my own hands.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>
But after we are married, surely <i>then</i>,
Maraquita—’ he said wistfully.</p>
<p>‘Oh, don’t talk of that now!’ cried
the girl hurriedly. ‘It will be time
enough to discuss what we shall do,
when the time arrives. But I must
go now, Henri, or Jessica may miss
me. Perhaps you will come up and
see me to-morrow.’</p>
<p>‘I will come up, without fail, whether
they let me see you or not. One kiss,
my darling. Remember that I look
upon you as <i>my wife</i>, and no one
shall wrest you from me.’</p>
<p>‘<i>No one</i>—no one!’ she answered
feverishly, as she returned his passionate
kisses, and almost wished she had the
courage to be true to him. Yet as
she crept back to her home through
the shadowy, moonlit paths—for she
would not let De Courcelles accompany<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>
her, for fear of being intercepted—she
knew she had been lying, and had
no more intention of marrying him than
before. She had used his entreaties
as a means to her own end, and if
<i>that</i> were accomplished, she would have
no hesitation in breaking the promise
she had given him. She could always
fall back—so she thought—on the duty
which she owed her parents, and if
the great misfortune of being found
out befell her, and the wrath of her
father and mother proved too hard to
bear, why, Henri de Courcelles was
ready and eager to marry her.</p>
<p>Maraquita did not argue with her
own conscience in so many words, but
such were the thoughts that flitted
through her brain as she traversed the
slight distance between the overseer’s
bungalow and the White House, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>
noiselessly re-entered her chamber.
Jessica, who had watched her go and
return, never closed her faithful eyes
in slumber until she was assured that
her young mistress was safely in her
bed again, and, for the first time since
she had sought it, fast asleep.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i203.jpg" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i204a.jpg" alt=""></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
</div>
<div>
<img class="drop-cap" src="images/i204b.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="M">
</div>
<p><span class="drop-cap">M</span>EANWHILE Lizzie Fellows,
unconscious of her lover’s infidelity,
sat up the livelong
night, cradling his deserted infant in her
arms. Whilst the members of the White
House were wrapped in slumber, and even
Maraquita and Henri de Courcelles had
gained a temporary relief from their
perplexities, and everything was hushed
and silent in the Doctor’s bungalow,
Liz rocked the wailing infant to and fro,
or slowly paced up and down the room<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>
singing a soft lullaby to try and soothe
it. But the puny little creature refused
to be comforted. It wanted the warmth
and shelter of its mother’s bosom, and
bleated as pitifully for it as an orphaned
lamb standing beside the dead body of
the ewe on a bleak hillside. Liz, who
had had a great deal of experience with
children, tried all her arts to quiet it
in vain. The baby was determined she
should have no rest that night.</p>
<p>‘Poor wee mite,’ she whispered, as
she laid her cheek against its face, and a
natural instinct made it turn its soft lips
towards it to find the breast. ‘How
can she leave you to the care of
strangers? How can she sleep in
comfort, not knowing if you cry, or are
at peace? If you were <i>mine</i>, I would
die sooner than give up my mother’s
right to feed and cherish you, yes, even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>
if the world stoned me for it. How I
wish I might bring you up for my
own little girl—my little tiny Maraquita!’</p>
<p>How startled we should be sometimes
if the wishes we carelessly utter were
to be immediately fulfilled! Liz little
thought as she crooned over the unconscious
baby, that the hour was rapidly
approaching when her puzzle would be
not how to keep it, but how to get rid
of it. Yet so it was.</p>
<p>All that night she walked the room
with its little downy head nestled close
to her bosom, and its tiny fingers locked
round her own. A dozen times she
warmed the milk, of which it could only
take a few drops, to keep the flickering
life in its frail body, and covered it
warmly with flannel, to increase the
circulation of its blood, although the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>
hot night air permeated the apartment.
It was so feeble, that sometimes she
almost thought its heart had stopped
beating, and uncovered it with a sudden
terror. But the infant slept on, although
each breath it drew seemed like a wail,
until the shadows dispersed, and the
glorious West Indian sun rose like a
king, and flooded the island with his
glory. There seemed to be no dawn
to the watcher, or rather it was so
momentary, that the night changed as
if by magic into day, and the windows
of heaven were thrown open suddenly
to let the sunlight stream upon the
land. It was the waking signal for all
life. The big magnolia flowers opened
their creamy blossoms as they felt its
rays; the trumpet creepers unfolded
their leaves; the mimosa spread herself
out as though she would bask in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>
returning light. A hundred scents filled
the morning air, and from the grove of
trees came many a chirp—first singly
and then in twos and threes, as the
birds encouraged their mates to rouse
themselves, and come forth to pick up
the insects before they hid in the long
grasses from the noonday heat. From
the negro quarters was borne a sort
of humming sound, as of a disturbed
bee-hive, as the Aunt Sallies and
Chloes and Uncle Toms turned out
of their beds, and made their toilets
in the open air. The morning had
broken. It was five o’clock, and in
another half-hour the overseer would be
amongst them, and accept no excuses
if the whole gang were not drawn up
in readiness to march down to the
cotton fields or the coffee plantation.</p>
<p>Liz sat in her room with the baby<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>
on her knee, listening for the sound
of his mustang’s feet. How often had
she been roused from her sleep as
they passed her window, and breathed
a prayer for her lover’s safety before
she laid her head on her pillow again—or
watched for him after a night’s
vigil, and given him a bright smile
and a wave of her hand as a morning
welcome. But to-day she shrank from
seeing him. A cloud had risen between
them, with the knowledge of her
father’s secret, which made her afraid
to meet the eyes of the man from
whom she would be, perhaps, but too
soon parted for ever. Besides, were a
look from her to bring him to the open
window, the sacred trust she held in her
arms might be betrayed. Liz blushed
as she wondered what explanation
she could possibly give Henri de<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>
Courcelles of the child’s presence there,
and how curious he would become to
learn its parentage, and moved further
from the window as the thought struck
her.</p>
<p>She need not have been afraid. She
heard his palfrey canter by, and caught
a glimpse of his handsome figure as he
rode past the bungalow; but his head
was filled with thoughts of Maraquita,
and how he could accomplish the task
she had set him, and he never even
turned his head in her direction. Liz
sighed as she observed the defalcation.
It was foolish, no doubt, and unworthy
of a sensible woman, for her first wish
had been to avoid him. But who is
sensible in love?</p>
<p>The little child was sleeping soundly
at last, and Liz laid it on the pillows
of her bed, and commenced her morning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>
toilet. The thought of her father
had suddenly struck her. If he was
to ride to the Fort that morning and
consult Dr Martin about a foster-nurse
for the baby, it was time he was roused
and went upon his way. The cool
hours are soon over in that climate,
and when the sun has fairly risen, it
is unsafe for any European to ride
about, and her father had not looked
well of late.</p>
<p>The excitement of Maraquita’s illness,
and the necessity for concealment, had
told on Dr Fellows, and made his
face more drawn and haggard than it
had been before. And though he had
brought much trouble on her, and
might prove the cause of her losing
what she most cared for, still Lizzie
loved him dearly, and pitied more than
she blamed him. To live for years<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>
under a load of shame and the fear
of detection, what greater curse could
any human creature be called upon to
suffer? Liz’s own burthen sunk into
insignificance beside it.</p>
<p>Her mind reverted to her early days,
when she used to wonder why <i>her</i>
father’s hair was grey, whilst that of
Maraquita’s was brown, or why Mr
Courtney played hide-and-seek with
them in the plantation, whilst Dr Fellows
shook his head and told her such
games were only meant for little boys
and girls. Liz understood it now, and
felt almost glad to think she could
show her sympathy with all he had
gone through, even though she had to
sacrifice her own future in order to
pass it by his side.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Henri de Courcelles had
completed his journey, and reined in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>
his steed at the negroes’ quarters.
The hands were all ready to receive
him—the men chiefly dressed in white
or striped linen jackets, with dark
blue trousers, and the women in print
petticoats, and gaily coloured orange
or crimson handkerchiefs knotted about
their woolly hair. They were a fine-looking
set of coolies, all free men,
as they were termed by courtesy, but
in reality as much slaves as any before
the passing of the Abolition Act. They
were not all of African blood. Many
had come from the East Indies—had
been shipped across in hundreds at a
time from Calcutta to San Diego,
under a promise of higher pay, and
less work, than they could obtain in
their own country, and had been
landed penniless and powerless, to find
themselves compelled to take any wages<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>
that were offered them, and do any
work they were ordered, because they
had no means of returning to India.
These coolies were not so muscular
and capable of hard labour as the
Africans, but they were handsomer, both
in face and figure. Some of the women
had almost perfect features, and were
lithe and supple as young roes; but
they all bore, more or less, an expression
of melancholy. They were not
so well able to cast off care, and
make the best of the present, as
their companions in slavery, but they
were more crafty and more desirous
of revenge. Amongst them—standing
very much to the front, in fact, as
if she wished to attract attention—was
a young girl of perhaps fifteen—the
age of a child in our country, but of
a grown woman in hers. She was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>
tall for her nationality, and had a
beautifully rounded figure, with tiny
hands and feet, and a face fit for a
sultan’s harem. She was evidently a
coquette, and thought much of her
personal appearance, for a bunch of
white flowers was twined in her long
plaits of hair, and a crimson handkerchief
was tied across her bosom. In
her arms she held an infant of a few
months old, a lusty crowing boy, who
showed evident signs of having a mixture
of white blood in his composition,
and of whom his mother seemed inordinately
proud. She was standing
so close to Henri de Courcelles’ horse,
that as he dismounted he brushed up
against her, and so roughly as almost
to knock her infant out of her arms.</p>
<p>‘Ah, sahib! take care of the little
baby!’ she cried warningly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>‘Who’s that? Jerusha! Then keep
your cub out of my way, will you?
Now then, my men, are you all ready?
March!’</p>
<p>The coolie girl frowned ominously as
the overseer addressed her, but she
made no answer. Only as the rest
of the labourers moved off in single
file to the fields, she remained to the
last, sulking, as if she had no intention
to move.</p>
<p>‘Now then, Jerusha!’ exclaimed Henri
de Courcelles impatiently, as he told off
the last negro, and saw her standing
there. ‘Make haste, will you?’ and
he cracked the whip he held as he
spoke. He seldom used the whip. It
was only his insignia of office, and
served as a signal for starting, but it
sounded differently in Jerusha’s ears that
morning.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>‘You dare beat <i>us</i>?’ she demanded
menacingly.</p>
<p>‘I am not going to beat you, but
I dare do anything, so don’t be a
fool,’ he replied, half laughing.</p>
<p>‘I’m sick,’ persisted Jerusha. ‘The
child kept me up all night. I’m not
fit to work. Sahib must let me go back
to my hut.’</p>
<p>‘I will let you do no such thing,’
replied De Courcelles. ‘You’re only
shamming. You’re as “fit” as any
woman on the plantation, and you
must work like the rest. Now, move
on, and look sharp about it.’</p>
<p>But Jerusha was obstinate, and had
got the bit between her teeth. She
considered herself a privileged person,
and at one time had been able to do
pretty much as she liked with the
overseer. But that time was past. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>
was tired of her, and disposed to
treat her, in consequence, a little more
harshly than the rest. Jerusha had
reckoned without her host when she
thought she could give herself airs.
When De Courcelles ordered her to
move on, she shrugged her shoulders
and stood still.</p>
<p>‘Now, are you going?’ he asked
her sharply.</p>
<p>‘I telling sahib I’m too sick.’</p>
<p>‘And I tell you you’re a liar. If
you won’t move of your own accord, I
will make you.’ He raised his whip
as he spoke, and Jerusha observed the
movement.</p>
<p>‘You don’t <i>dare</i> strike me!’ she said
defiantly; but before the words were
well out of her mouth, he had done
it, and the long lash curled round her
shoulders and stung the baby’s cheek,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>
and made the youngster squall. Jerusha’s
big black eyes flashed fire on
him.</p>
<p>‘You coward,’ she cried, ‘to strike
your own child! Some day I pay you
out for this. Some day <i>my</i> whip strike
<i>you</i>.’</p>
<p>He laughed carelessly at the girl’s
threat as she joined the gang of
labourers, and he flung himself across
his palfrey’s back, and rode after them.
But after a while, when the sun’s
rays began to beat rather fiercely on
his Panama hat, and he found his
servant had neglected to fill the straw-covered
flask that hung at his saddle
bow, he called the yellow girl Rosa
and gave the flask to her, and
directed her to carry it to the Doctor’s
bungalow.</p>
<p>‘Ask Miss Lizzie to fill it with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>
fresh sherbet or milk for me, Rosa,
and tell her I am coming in to breakfast
with her by-and-by.’</p>
<p>The residents in hot climates invariably
partake of two breakfasts; one a
light meal taken at break of day, and
the other a more substantial one, which
they can discuss at leisure when the
morning’s business is concluded. Rosa,
who was a lazy wench, who preferred
running messages, or doing odd jobs,
to regular work at any time, ran with
alacrity to the Doctor’s bungalow, and
began to sneak around it. A negro
employed on business can very seldom
go straight to the matter in hand.
He generally slinks about first, peering
into windows, and listening at doors,
and on this wise it came about that
Rosa’s cunning face was very soon to
be seen at the open window of Liz<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>
Fellows’ room. The apartment was
empty, Liz having just left it to go
to that of her father, but from a
bundle of flannel on the bed proceeded
a wailing cry, which roused all
Rosa’s curiosity. The black people
are proverbially curious, but this was
a case in which the offence might
surely be termed a venial one. And
with poor Rosa too, who had so lately
been bereft of her own child.</p>
<p>As soon as she recognised the cry,
she leapt into the room through the
window, and rushed up to the bed.
Yes! it was actually a baby, and a
white baby too, and in Miss Liz’s
bed! What inference but <i>one</i> could
be drawn in any ignorant mind from
such a circumstance? Miss Liz, who
had been so angry with her for the
same thing; who had said her poor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>
little Carlo had better never have been
born; who had talked so much to her
of virtue, and purity, and the sanctity of
marriage. Miss Liz had a baby in
<i>her</i> bed, that she had never told anybody
about! Here was a glorious opportunity
for revenge. Rosa’s eyes rolled
about and showed their yellow whites
as she thought of it. Miss Liz hadn’t
pitied her, or so she chose to believe.
Why should she pity Miss Liz? And
why shouldn’t Massa Courcelles, and
all the niggers, and the people at the
White House, know what she had
done? The engagement between Liz
and Henri de Courcelles had been kept
so secret that no one could say it was
a positive fact, but most of the plantation
hands knew he had courted the
Doctor’s daughter, and believed that
it would end in marriage. Rosa showed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>
all her white teeth as she chuckled
over the idea that now perhaps the
overseer would have nothing more to
do with Miss Lizzie, and she would
be pointed at and scorned, as Rosa
had been, when first she appeared
out of doors with little Carlo in her
arms. As the yellow girl thought
thus, she slipped off the bed, where,
she had mounted to better examine the
baby, and left the room as noiselessly
as she had entered it. A cunning
idea had flashed across her brain,—that
if Miss Lizzie caught her there,
she would hide the infant, and no
one would be ever the wiser. So she
must get back to the field without
seeing her, and invent some excuse
for her return, on the way. She was
quite ready with it by the time she
reached the side of De Courcelles,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>
and she lied so glibly that at first
he did not suspect her of an untruth.</p>
<p>‘Miss Liz have got no sherbet,
Massa! She very sick all night, and
drink all de sherbet. But Miss Liz
want to see you berry particuler and
berry directly, please, Massa. She
got something berry important to
say; and she tell me,—“Rosa, go
and fetch Massa Courcelles here directly,
and come back with him all de
way.”’</p>
<p>‘That’s a curious message, Rosa.
What does Miss Liz want <i>you</i> for?’
asked De Courcelles, as he turned his
steps towards the bungalow, with the
yellow girl by his side.</p>
<p>‘How can <i>I</i> tell Massa Courcelles?
P’r’aps Miss Liz want me to mind
de baby a bit. P’r’aps she want to ask<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>
my ’pinion. Miss Liz know how well
I look after my poor little Carlo ’fore
de fever come and taken him to
heaven.’</p>
<p>The words naturally attracted the overseer’s
attention.</p>
<p>‘<i>The baby!</i>’ he exclaimed, taken off
his guard. ‘What do you mean?’</p>
<p>Rosa’s cunning eyes looked full into
his own.</p>
<p>‘You not <i>know</i>?’ she said inquisitively.
‘Miss Liz not tell you she got
a little baby at the bungalow—and in
her own bed too? Ah, Miss Liz berry
sly—but it’s truth, Massa. I have seen
it with my own eyes. A little white
baby, too, only dressed like a little nigger
in a cotton shirt.’</p>
<p>‘Rosa, you must be dreaming. You
are lying to me,’ said Henri de
Courcelles, suddenly alive to the danger<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>
of the girl’s discovery. ‘How
can Miss Liz have a baby at the
bungalow?’</p>
<p>‘Ah, Missy Liz knows that best
herself,’ replied the yellow girl, with
an oracular nod; ‘but it’s God’s truth,
all de same, Massa, and dere’s not
much difference ’tween white gal and
yaller gal, after all. Miss Liz berry
angry with me because little Carlo
come a bit too soon, but dere’s a baby
come to her now, and I shall have my
revenge.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ exclaimed
De Courcelles; ‘and don’t presume to
speak to me in that way of Miss
Liz.’</p>
<p>But though he affected to be angry,
he saw a light glimmering through the
clouds of perplexity that overshadowed
him, all the same. What if this child—for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>
he could not doubt <i>which</i> child
Rosa meant—should be taken by the
plantation hands for Lizzie’s? How
fortunately the circumstance would divert
public suspicion from his poor Maraquita!
It never occurred to him what
a piece of dastardly cruelty it would be
to shift the blame from one woman
to the other, so selfish does the
madness of passion render us. But
he could not understand how the infant
came to be at the bungalow, and
he was painfully curious on the subject.</p>
<p>‘Massa Courcelles not believe me?’
continued Rosa, as they drew in sight
of Lizzie’s window; ‘then Massa just
come here and look for himself.’</p>
<p>The yellow girl was standing before
the open casement, and beckoning to
him as she spoke, and something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>
stronger than mere curiosity urged him
to obey her summons. He drew near
on tiptoe, and peeped in. The infant
was still lying on the bed, its tiny
face uncovered to the air.</p>
<p>De Courcelles was not a man much
subject to the softer emotions, but as
he looked at it, he trembled. In another
moment he had started backwards,
for the bedroom door opened,
and Lizzie herself appeared upon the
threshold, and, taking up the baby,
carried it into the outer room.</p>
<p>‘Now do you believe I telling lies?’
exclaimed Rosa triumphantly, as she
looked up into the overseer’s pale face;
and before he could prevent her, she
had run round the house, and in at the
front door.</p>
<p>Fearful of what discovery might
follow her intrusion, De Courcelles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>
hurried after her, and arrived just in
time to see the mock curtsey which
she dropped to the Doctor’s daughter.
Lizzie herself, taken at a disadvantage,
and utterly unprepared at that early
hour of the morning for visitors,
was standing by the table, white
as a sheet, holding the baby in her
arms, and apparently unable to say a
word.</p>
<p>‘Good morning, Miss Lizzie!’ cried
Rosa, with another deep reverence.
‘Massa Courcelles and I jest come
round to see you and de new
baby, and to ask how you both do
to-day.’</p>
<p>‘What do you mean?’ said Lizzie,
though she knew well enough, as she
stood before them white and trembling.</p>
<p>‘Ah, Miss Lizzie, you berry sly.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>
You know berry well what I mean. I
want to see dat nice baby of yours.
Is he like my little Carlo? Ah! I
know he’s white, like his moder, but
I will love him all de same, if you will
let me.’</p>
<p>‘Henri,’ said Lizzie, with an assumption
of great calmness, in order to cover
the shaking of her voice, ‘will you
stand by silent and hear this girl insult
me?’</p>
<p>‘Certainly not,’ he replied. ‘Go back
to the field, Rosa, and continue your
work. You said Miss Lizzie asked you
to return with me, or you should not
have come.’</p>
<p>‘She deceived you,’ said Lizzie. ‘I
have not seen her nor spoken to her
this morning.’</p>
<p>‘I know dat berry well,’ cried Rosa
impudently; ‘but I come to see dat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>
baby of yours, and I bring Massa
Courcelles to see it too. And now I
will go back to my work with a light
heart, for I wish you joy, Miss Lizzie,
and I hope de Lord won’t send for
dat baby of yours same He did for my
poor little Carlo,’ and with another
curtsey, the yellow girl turned on her
heel, and ran out of the bungalow, leaving
Henri de Courcelles and Lizzie together.</p>
<p>She was the first to speak.</p>
<p>‘Had you any knowledge of Rosa’s
intentions when she brought you here?’
she asked quietly.</p>
<p>‘Not the slightest, upon my honour,’
he replied. ‘I sent her to you with
my empty flask, to beg a little sherbet,
and she returned with a message that
you desired to see me at once, and
that <i>she</i> was to accompany me back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>
again. On the way, she told me a
story that I found it almost impossible
to believe.’</p>
<p>‘And what was the story?’</p>
<p>‘That—that—you have a white
infant at the bungalow. Is it
true?’</p>
<p>‘You can see for yourself that it is
true! What then?’</p>
<p>‘Whose child is it? Where does
it come from?’ he asked, in a nervous
voice, for he fully believed that, being
alone, she would confide the secret of
Maraquita’s shame to him.</p>
<p>But she was silent.</p>
<p>‘Why will you not tell me?’ he
continued, more boldly; ‘it is impossible
but that you must know. You
cannot be sheltering a child of
whose origin you are not aware.’</p>
<p>‘Why should it be impossible?’ she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>
answered; ‘might I not have found
it, or adopted it?’</p>
<p>‘Nonsense!’ he rejoined impatiently;
‘where did you find it then?’</p>
<p>Again she was silent.</p>
<p>‘Lizzie! I resent this want of confidence
between us. Considering how
we stand to one another, I have a
right to ask you whose child that is.
Do you know what Rosa thinks and
says about it?’</p>
<p>‘It is nothing to me,’ returned Lizzie
proudly, ‘<i>what</i> Rosa may think or say.’</p>
<p>‘But it may be a great deal to
<i>me</i>. It is not very pleasant for me
to hear your name handled and defamed
by the black brutes I look
after,—to know they speak of you
lightly, and say—’</p>
<p>‘What do they <i>dare</i> to say?’
she exclaimed, as she turned and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>
faced him, with the infant on her
breast.</p>
<p>‘That that infant is your own!’</p>
<p>There was the silence of a minute
between them, and then she said, in
a low voice,—</p>
<p>‘And what do <i>you</i> say?’</p>
<p>‘That I require to be satisfied who
it belongs to, and that you must tell
me.’</p>
<p>‘<i>I cannot!</i>’</p>
<p>There was such an amount of quiet
despair in her voice as she pronounced
the words, that De Courcelles felt at
once that Maraquita’s secret was safe,
and that she would not disclose it
even to <i>him</i>. And with the conviction,
came a glad, unworthy satisfaction that
her guilt and his would be concealed,
even at the expense of their most
faithful friend.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>‘<i>You cannot?</i>’ he repeated, in a voice
of feigned astonishment. ‘But I say
<i>you must</i>, or everything shall be over
between us!’</p>
<p>‘Henri!’ she exclaimed earnestly,
‘think—think what you are doing.
You cannot possibly suspect <i>me</i>! Why,
I—I—<i>love you</i>!’ she ended falteringly,
as if that confession must clear her
at once, and for ever.</p>
<p>‘It’s all very fine talking,’ he answered
roughly, ‘but facts are ugly things; and
if there is any honourable explanation
of them, I have a right to demand
it. You have a newly-born infant in
your arms, and all the plantation is
talking of it. If you are not its
mother, <i>who is</i>?’</p>
<p>Lizzie turned away from him proudly.</p>
<p>‘Go and find out for yourself,’ she
said. ‘If you can suspect me even for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>
one moment, you are unworthy of my
affection. I will not lower myself to
contradict your base suspicion. Think
what you will, and act as you think
best. I can tell you no more than I
have done already.’</p>
<p>‘Then I am to believe Rosa’s
story?’</p>
<p>‘You can believe what you choose.
This child was given in trust to me
by my father, and I am not at
liberty to speak to you, or any one,
concerning it. It is by an unhappy
accident that it has even been
seen. I cannot remedy that, but I
can prevent the mischief going further.
If you cannot accept my word that
it bears no relationship to myself,
I can do no more than deny it.
On any other subject, my lips are
sealed.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>Admiration for her sisterly devotion
and fidelity had almost made him forget
the part he had to play; but the
thought of Maraquita came to his
assistance, and nerved him to complete
his cruel task.</p>
<p>‘Well, I will not court your confidence
further, Lizzie,’ he said, rising,
‘but you must consider our engagement
at an end. It would be impossible
to be happy in married life
with a secret like this between us.
You <i>may</i> have told me the truth, but
I am not convinced of it; and where
there is distrust, there can be no
love. Let us part now, and for
ever.’</p>
<p>For the first time, the extent of the
sacrifice she was making seemed to
strike Lizzie’s mind.</p>
<p>‘No! no!’ she screamed, rushing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>
after him; ‘I cannot part with you
thus! Oh, Henri! think a moment!
Think how I have loved you! Can
you imagine it possible that I should
have been so false to you—so false
to myself? I swear to you on my
knees, and before God, that this child
is not mine. Will not that content
you?’</p>
<p>‘No! nothing will content me now—not
even if you attempted to cast
the blame on some one else. You
have spoken too late, Lizzie. Nothing
but conscious guilt would have
kept your lips closed until this moment.’</p>
<p>‘You shall <i>not</i> believe it of me!’
she exclaimed vehemently. ‘I will not
throw my good name away so recklessly.
My father is sleeping still. He
has been ill and weary lately, and I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>
thought it kind to let him rest; but
he would never forgive me for letting
him sleep on whilst his daughter’s fair
name was being called in question.
Stay but one moment, Henri, and my
father shall tell you that I speak the
truth.’</p>
<p>She flew past him to the Doctor’s
sleeping apartment as she spoke, and
Henri de Courcelles, anxious to know
the best or worst at once, stood where
she had left him, gazing after her retreating
form.</p>
<p>But in another moment a piercing
cry of agony sent him to her side.
He found her standing by the bed,
staring at her father’s still, cold
features.</p>
<p>‘He is gone!’ she exclaimed wildly.
‘See here, Henri, he is dead—<i>dead</i>,
and can never now release me from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>
my oath! O God! have pity on
me!’</p>
<p>And with that she fell to weeping
over the prostrate form.</p>
<p>‘<i>Dead!</i>’ echoed De Courcelles, momentarily
awed into the reverence we
all feel at the approach of the White
King. ‘But now, at least, you are free
to tell me the truth, Lizzie.’</p>
<p>‘Never!’ she cried. ‘My lips are
sealed as his own for evermore. If
I could keep my vow to the living,
how much more do you suppose will
I hold it sacred to the dead? Act as
you think right, Henri, but I will never
tell you the name of the mother of this
child.’</p>
<p>‘Then all is over between us,’ he
returned, as he slunk away, heartily
ashamed of himself, and yet with a
load lifted from his breast as he remembered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>
that he had unconsciously,
but surely, obeyed Maraquita’s behest,
and might boldly claim the reward she
had promised for it.</p>
<p class="center">END OF VOL. I.</p>
<hr class="tiny">
<p class="center">COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/back_cover.jpg" alt="back cover"></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p>
<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p>
</div></div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75274 ***</div>
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