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Title: A crown of shame, volume 1 (of 3)

Author: Florence Marryat

Release date: February 2, 2025 [eBook #75274]

Language: English

Original publication: London: F. V. White & Co, 1888

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, David E. Brown, Chris Corrigan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CROWN OF SHAME, VOLUME 1 (OF 3) ***





  A CROWN OF SHAME.

  VOL. I.




  A CROWN OF SHAME.

  _A NOVEL._

  BY
  FLORENCE MARRYAT,

  AUTHOR OF
  ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’
  ETC. ETC.

  _IN THREE VOLUMES._

  VOL. I.

  LONDON:
  F. V. WHITE & CO.,
  31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

  1888.

  [_All rights reserved._]




  EDINBURGH
  COLSTON AND COMPANY
  PRINTERS




[Illustration]

_CONTENTS._


                    PAGE

  CHAPTER I.           1

  CHAPTER II.         29

  CHAPTER III.        56

  CHAPTER IV.         83

  CHAPTER V.         110

  CHAPTER VI.        139

  CHAPTER VII.       166

  CHAPTER VIII.      204




A CROWN OF SHAME.




POPULAR NEW NOVELS.


_Now ready, in One Vol., the Seventh Edition of_

  =ARMY SOCIETY; or, Life in a Garrison Town.= By JOHN STRANGE WINTER.
    Author of ‘Bootles’ Baby.’ Cloth gilt, 6s.; also picture boards, 2s.


_Also now ready, in cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each._

  =GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton.= By JOHN STRANGE WINTER.
    Also picture boards, 2s.

  =IN THE SHIRES.= By Sir RANDAL H. ROBERTS, Bart.

  =THE OUTSIDER.= By HAWLEY SMART.

  =THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT.= By Mrs EDWARD KENNARD.

  =STRAIGHT AS A DIE.= By the same Author.

  =BY WOMAN’S WIT.= By Mrs ALEXANDER. Author of ‘The Wooing O’t.’

  =KILLED IN THE OPEN.= By Mrs EDWARD KENNARD.

  =IN A GRASS COUNTRY.= By Mrs H. LOVETT-CAMERON.

  =A DEVOUT LOVER.= By the same Author.

  =TWILIGHT TALES.= By Mrs EDWARD KENNARD. _Illustrated._

  =SHE CAME BETWEEN.= By Mrs ALEXANDER FRASER.

  =THE CRUSADE OF ‘THE EXCELSIOR.’= By BRET HARTE.

  =A REAL GOOD THING.= By Mrs EDWARD KENNARD.

  =CURB AND SNAFFLE.= By Sir RANDAL H. ROBERTS, Bart.

  =DREAM FACES.= By the Hon. Mrs FETHERSTONHAUGH.

  =A SIEGE BABY.= By JOHN STRANGE WINTER.

  =MONA’S CHOICE.= By Mrs ALEXANDER. Author of ‘The Wooing O’t.’


F. V. WHITE & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.




[Illustration]

A CROWN OF SHAME.




CHAPTER I.


It 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 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 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 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. 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.

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. 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.

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 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.

‘Missy feeling ill?’ ‘Missy like a little wine?’ ‘I go calling Massa to
see Missy?’

‘No! No! What are you talking about? I am as well as possible!’ cried
Liz, hastily brushing her tears away. ‘I was only thinking.’

‘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!’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘And my poor girl can’t stand no ways!’ cried another; ‘and Rosa’s boy
die this afternoon.’

‘Oh, what can I do--what can I do for you all?’ exclaimed Liz, with her
hands to her head.

At this moment, the group in the Doctor’s bungalow was augmented by a
fresh 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.

‘He is _dead_!’ 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 left to remind me
of my lover who has sailed away to America.’

‘Oh, Rosa! how can you so misjudge me?’ said Liz, as she put one arm
round the weeping girl. But Rosa flung it off.

‘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.’

‘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 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.’

‘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.’

And with that she rushed out again into the darkness.

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!
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.

‘Hullo! Miss Fellows, as busy as usual, I suppose, and no time even to
bid a poor mariner welcome.’

Liz turned at the sound of the cheery voice, with her welcome ready in
her eyes.

‘Oh, Captain Norris! Are you back again already? When did you arrive?’

The stranger’s face fell.

‘_Back again already!_ 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.’

‘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 get to their homes
again, and then I will hear all your news.’

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.

‘I am sorry to find you have fever in the island,’ he said, by way of a
commencement.

‘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 dozen. It is sickening to hear of the numbers of
deaths, and to witness the trouble;--enough to break one’s heart.’

‘But you keep well?’ he inquired anxiously.

‘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.’

‘Mr Courtney must have experienced a great loss.’

‘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 in other parts of the island, and some degree of
insubordination.’

‘And how is Mr Courtney’s beautiful daughter?’

‘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.’

‘And Henri de Courcelles! Is he still the overseer at Beauregard?’
demanded Captain Norris, after a short pause.

Liz coloured.

‘Yes! Why should he not be so? Mr Courtney has every trust and
confidence in him.’

‘So much the worse, I think, for Mr Courtney.’

She fired up directly.

‘Captain Norris, you have no right to 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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘It is a dull life that you lead here with him, Liz.’

‘Don’t say that! A useful life can never be dull, and I have many
pleasures beside.’

‘But you would like to see a little more of the world, would you not?
You would like to visit your native country, England, and make the
acquaintance of your relations?’

Liz looked at him wistfully.

‘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.’

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.

‘Oh, how beautiful!’ she could not help exclaiming.

‘They are for you,’ said her companion brusquely; ‘I brought them from
England expressly for you.’

‘_For me!_’ repeated Liz wonderingly. ‘Oh, Captain Norris, how very
good it is of you! Whatever made you think of _me_?’

He seized the hand which was feeling the soft texture of the desk.

‘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.’

‘Oh, Captain Norris, pray don’t talk to me like that! You are mistaken;
I am not the good woman you take me for.’

‘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.’

‘I cannot,’ she said, in a low voice.

‘You _cannot_!’ he echoed; ‘and why?’

‘I don’t think you should ask me. I don’t think you have the right to
ask me. But it is impossible. I shall never be your wife.’

‘Does any one stand between us?’

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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

Hugh Norris dropped his head upon his hands.

‘Engaged,’ he murmured, ‘really and truly engaged! My God! why did I
not have the courage to speak before?’

His despair roused her compassion. She drew nearer, and laid her hand
upon his shoulder.

‘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.’

‘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,
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.’

‘How _dare_ 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?’

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.

‘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 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.’

‘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.’

‘You are wilfully blind to the fact then that he has black blood in his
veins.’

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.

‘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
love_, and I will not stand by quietly and hear him defamed.’

‘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!’

‘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 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.’

‘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.’

‘Stay!’ cried the girl impetuously. ‘You have forgotten your presents.
Take them with you.’

‘Won’t you even keep the poor things I have carried so far for you?’ he
asked her humbly.

‘Keep them!’ she echoed scornfully. ‘Keep a reminder always before me
of 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.’

‘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 love you_, and that when the day comes
(as it _will_ come) when your other lover forsakes you, I will prove
what I say.’

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.

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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.


Before she turned her head to greet him, Liz knew _who_ had entered the
bungalow. The marvellous instinct of love made her _feel_ 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 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, 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.

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 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 _surveillance_ 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 _could_ be
unjust to any one and thought the negroes only wished to escape the
punishments they had incurred--still she could not help wishing, with
a sigh, that he had the power to control them without punishment.
But of course _he_ 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.

‘Henri! what is the matter? Are you ill?’

‘Ill! No,’ he answered pettishly, as he flung himself into a chair.
‘You are so 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?’

‘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.’

‘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 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.’

Her sympathy was roused at once.

‘What worries, dear? Tell me of them. Can I do nothing to help you out
of them?’

He coloured slightly under his dark skin as he stretched himself and
said,--

‘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.’

‘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 suffer as I do, you
could not fail to feel for them. Have you been very busy lately?’

‘Pretty well. Why do you ask?’

‘Because it is a week since you have been at the cottage.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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.

‘You have been a great deal at the White House, have you not?’ she
continued.

He flushed again, and turned uneasily in his chair, so as to avoid the
straightforward glance of her eyes.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘Captain Norris does not _skulk_’, 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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

She stood for a few moments after that, expecting to hear an indignant
denial from his lips, but De Courcelles was silent.

‘Henri,’ she continued softly, turning a very pale face towards him,
‘it is not _true_?’

‘What is not true?’ he inquired brusquely.

‘That--that you are tired of me, and making love to Maraquita Courtney.’

‘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.’

She was all penitence for having suspected his fidelity in a moment.
She flung herself on her knees beside his chair, and threw one arm
around his shoulders.

‘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
_are_ very intimate at the White House; more so even than I am.’

‘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?’

‘No! No! of course not. But still--though I am _sure_ that you are true
to me,’ cried the woman, fighting against her own horrible suspicions
(for why should you have asked me to marry you, unless you loved me?)
still, Maraquita is very lovely, and she _likes_ 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 _your_ 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 how proud I was when old Jessica let me hold
her in my arms--’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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.

‘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 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.’

‘It will not gain ground through _my_ means, and I am only too glad to
know that it is not true,’ replied Liz, rising to her feet also.

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.

‘Of course--of course--I _knew_ it was not true,’ she repeated, in
a quivering voice, as she tried to persuade herself that all was
right between them. ‘For once you _promised_ 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.’

‘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.’

Liz looked bewildered.

‘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--_indeed_--’ continued Liz earnestly--all her reticence
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.

‘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!’

‘Will you swear it?’ cried Liz eagerly.

He hesitated a moment, and then he said,--

‘Yes, I swear it by the God Who made us both!’

The woman dropped down into her chair again, and burst into a flood of
hysterical tears.

‘Oh! I _felt_ it! I _knew_ 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.’

The young man crossed over to her, and laid his hand upon her bent head.

‘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 _know_ you in this new character.’

‘I _have_ 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.’

He winced a little as she spoke, but he professed to laugh at her
vehemence.

‘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.’

‘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 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.’

‘Can’t we find some pleasanter topic of conversation, Liz? Besides, you
know more of Miss Courtney than I could tell you.’

‘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.’

De Courcelles fired up again directly.

‘Curse the old fool! What business is it of hers how she looks! It’s
this infernal tittle-tattle from house to house, that makes all the
mischief in the world.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘You don’t think of going yourself, though.’

‘_I!_ Oh, dear no! I _should_ 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.’

‘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?’

‘Here he is,’ replied Liz, in a brisk and cheerful tone, as Dr Fellows
entered the bungalow.

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, unless sustained by his daughter’s strength of mind.

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.

‘You look very tired, father!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘Have you been far from
the plantation to-night, and are there any fresh cases?’

‘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.

‘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.’

‘How are you, Monsieur de Courcelles? We have not seen much of you
lately,’ said Dr Fellows languidly.

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, _nonchalant_ young
Frenchman did not 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.

‘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.’

‘Oh, if Liz is satisfied, I am sure _I_ am!’ retorted Dr Fellows.

‘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.’

‘You are right, my dear,’ replied the Doctor, staggering to his feet;
‘I really want rest. But you will go to bed, too, Lizzie. You will not
sit up too late with Monsieur de Courcelles?’

‘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.’

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.

‘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?’

‘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?’

‘Because Jessica said that Maraquita looked ill.’

‘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.’

‘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.




[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.


As 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 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 _at peace_!

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!

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
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 _that_ idea; and if
he were false, what did it signify to her _who_ 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 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.

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 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.

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.

But absorbed as Liz Fellows was in her 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 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 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.

‘Quita!’ she exclaimed, rushing forward, ‘my dear Quita, are you ill?’

But Maraquita shrunk from the kindly hand which was laid upon her, as
if it had been the sting of a serpent.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she murmured; ‘I could not bear it. I don’t want
_you_. I want--your--your--father.’

‘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?’

But all the answer Maraquita made was to utter another heartrending
moan as she swayed backwards and forwards with pain.

‘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.’

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.

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
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 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.

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 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 rushed to wake her father, and summon him to her
relief.

‘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!’

‘Maraquita _here_?’ said the Doctor, as he rose from his bed and
prepared to quit the room. ‘And without her parents? Impossible.’

‘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?’

‘We must send word to them at once,’ 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘And shall I be alone with you?’ she asked, with scared eyes.

‘Yes!--_quite_ 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.’

‘Is it the fever?’ inquired Liz, with a white face, for she knew that
Maraquita’s constitution was very fragile.

‘Yes! yes! Now, go and leave us, and tell this to no one.’

‘But, father, let me undress her first.’

‘I wish you to go at once and leave us alone,’ repeated the Doctor
firmly.

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.

‘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.’

‘Go nowhere, and speak to no one,’ replied Dr Fellows authoritatively.
‘They are _my orders_, remember. Remain in the sitting-room, and let no
one enter the house. When I require you, I will call you.’

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 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.

‘Only tell me if she is better,’ she urged.

‘She is not better yet,’ replied her father; ‘but there is every hope
she soon will be.’

‘Thank Heaven for it! But I cannot 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.’

‘I think if you look at the matter from a sensible point of view, Liz,
you will see that _when_ they miss Maraquita, _my_ bungalow is the
first place they will visit. But I do not think they _will_ miss her,
at least not yet. Meanwhile I want to speak to you. Can you give me
your serious attention?’

‘Unless Quita should want you,’ replied Liz, looking anxiously towards
the bed-chamber.

‘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.’

‘I am all attention, father.’

‘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?’

‘I don’t know that I have thought it _strange_, 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.’

‘You are right, Liz, and you are old enough now to share that
sorrow--or rather that _shame_.’

‘Oh! no, no, father, don’t say _that_!’ cried Lizzie, as her work
dropped into her lap. ‘Whatever it may be, it is not _shame_.’

‘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--’

‘WHAT? In Heaven’s name, WHAT?’ she exclaimed, clutching at his sleeve.

‘_Transportation_,’ replied Dr Fellows, in a low, strained voice.

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 compassion
took the place of her first resentment.

‘My poor father,’ she said, in a low voice, as she took his hands in
hers. ‘My _poor_ father! Surely it was not deserved. There _must_ have
been some mistake.’

‘No, Lizzie, there was no mistake. Since I have told you so far, you
must hear all! I am a forger.’

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.

‘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, 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 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?’

‘Our lives, should he require them,’ she answered, in a low voice.

She was deeply humiliated by what she 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 the full depth of its meaning into the
answer she returned him, and he caught at it eagerly.

‘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.’

‘_An oath!_’ cried Lizzie, startled at the idea.

‘Yes! an oath before Almighty God. Nothing short of it will satisfy me,
and set my mind at rest.’

‘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.’

‘No, Lizzie--no! I am not asking this 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.”’

‘Oh, father! you frighten me! What terrible thing is going to happen?’

‘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.’

‘For Quita’s sake then, father, “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.”’

‘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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.


Liz 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. _This_, 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 escaped justice
by yielding up his birthright and hiding on the plantation of his
benefactor, Mr Courtney. It was a _very_ bitter truth to swallow.

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 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.

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.

‘Do you want me?’ she said quickly.

Dr Fellows answered her in a tone of portentous gravity,--

‘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.’

Liz glanced at the large basket which her father carried in his hand,
with astonishment.

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘But what has this to do with Mr Courtney?’

‘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 me, and my message to her is
“_Silence and secrecy_.”’

‘I will go,’ said Lizzie shortly, as she took the basket from her
father’s hand.

‘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?’

The contemptuous curl of Liz’s lip showed him the futility of the
question.

‘_Afraid!_’ she echoed. ‘When have you ever known me afraid yet?
Besides, if this is to be done for _Mr Courtney_, my life is at his
service.’

‘More than your life, Lizzie--your sacred honour. Remember your oath,
never to reveal what you may hear, see, or suspect this night.’

‘I have not forgotten it,’ said his daughter briefly, as she threw a
mantle over her shoulders, and left the cottage with her burden.

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.

Yet she went bravely on, her only means of defence a stout stick with
which she stirred the leaves in her path, in order to unearth a hidden
enemy.

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 her feet were very weary
before she got there.

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 _sage-femme_ 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 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
_not_ 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 _run_ 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 was scarcely awake enough to
understand what was said to her.

‘Missy Liz!’ she exclaimed in her surprise; ‘who bad now? Not little
Cora, sure! Dat chile not due for three week yet.’

‘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 _this_,’ placing
the basket on the floor, ‘and to say his message to you is “_Silence
and secrecy_.”’

‘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?’

‘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, “_Silence
and secrecy_,”’ and with that she ran quickly down the uneven rocky
path again.

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 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 _she_ have so deceived her
friends and lowered herself; and _who_ 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 justified in taking it, and she felt ashamed of the
jealous spirit that had forced it from him.

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 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.

‘_You know all_,’ he whispered sternly, as he looked into her sad eyes,
and squeezed her hand as in a vice. ‘_Remember your oath._’

‘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?’

‘She has been to fetch me some necessary drugs,’ replied the Doctor
quickly.

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 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.

‘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 has been quite out of sorts
for some weeks past. But oh! Lizzie, how _can_ she have caught it?’

This long harangue had given Lizzie an opportunity to recover her
equanimity, and she was able to reply quite calmly,--

‘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.’

‘But he will not let us even _look_ at the dear child. Dr Fellows, I
really think you are _too_ particular. Surely her parents have the
_right_ to see her.’

‘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 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?’

‘Certainly _not_,’ interrupted Mr Courtney decisively. ‘You are right,
Fellows, as you always are--’

(‘Don’t say that,’ interpolated the Doctor, in a pained voice.)

‘----and I forbid my wife going near the room where Maraquita lies. I
can trust her to you, Fellows--implicitly, and 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.’

‘Indeed--indeed I will, Courtney! If a sense of all I owe to you--’

‘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--’

‘With my own,’ interrupted the Doctor solemnly. ‘I would lay down my
life to-morrow, Courtney, to save that of any one who is dear to you.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘It is the heat,’ murmured Liz, in a low voice, as she turned away;
‘and I have 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.’

‘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.’

‘The distress seems universal,’ continued Liz; ‘the same floods that
rotted the vegetation, and caused this malarious fever, have destroyed
the rice-fields, and 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?’

‘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.’

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.

‘Let Jessica stay, at all events,’ she said; ‘she has been Quita’s
nurse since she was a baby, and has attended her 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.’

‘That sounds reasonable,’ acquiesced Mr Courtney; ‘and perhaps Jessica
had better remain at the bungalow.’

But Dr Fellows was firm in resisting the proposal.

‘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.’

‘You are a good fellow,’ said Mr Courtney, wringing the Doctor’s hand,
‘and I do not limit the confidence I place in you. Jessica shall
return with us, and we will leave Quita entirely in your care.’

‘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.’

As he returned from seeing them off, and met his daughter’s eye, his
face changed, and his expression became very grave.

‘That is well over,’ he ejaculated, with a sigh, ‘and the rest remains,
Lizzie, with you and me.’

‘Which means, father, that she is safe as far as _we_ are concerned. Am
I to go into her room?’

‘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?’

‘Not the slightest. I know so few of her friends. I have not even heard
that she had an attachment for any one.’

‘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 _you_ 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.’

‘But--Mammy Lila!’ gasped Liz.

‘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.

‘Father, are you ill?’ cried Lizzie quickly, as she sprang to his
assistance.

‘No, I think not; but I will take a cordial, if you will mix it for me.
I _must_ not be ill until this business is settled, and Maraquita is
safe under her parents’ roof again.’

‘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.’

‘If I _die_ 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.

Lizzie looked after him with the deepest anxiety.

‘I am _sure_ 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
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.’

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.


The 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 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 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
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,
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 _some one_ 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 that the making of a saint lurks behind it.

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, 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 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.

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.

‘I suppose you have come to speak 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?’

‘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.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. What disturbed you?’

‘The news has evidently not yet reached you. Our poor Maraquita has
been dangerously ill.’

De Courcelles started, and changed colour. His olive complexion turned
to a sickly yellow, and his brilliant eyes became dull and lustreless.
The planter was not blind to the emotion he expressed.

‘Miss Courtney--ill?’ stammered the overseer.

‘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.’

‘She _is_ better, I hope?’ gasped De Courcelles.

‘She _is_ better, and, I thank God, out of danger,’ replied Mr
Courtney, looking 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?’

The overseer stammered still more.

‘Yes--no--that is to say, sir, there _has_ been some idea of such a
thing between us, but nothing is definitely settled.’

Mr Courtney regarded the young man sternly.

‘_Some idea!_ Do you mean to tell me that you would presume to trifle
with the girl, and hold out a prospect you have 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.’

‘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.’

‘You mean to say that your salary is not sufficient to keep a wife
upon?’

‘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.’

‘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?’

Henri de Courcelles shifted his feet, and looked uncertain.

‘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.’

‘Then you don’t love the girl, and you don’t intend to marry her?’

‘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.’

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,--

‘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 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.’

The handsome young overseer had flushed dark crimson during his
employer’s speech, but he did not immediately reply to it.

‘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.’

‘I have never presumed to think it could,’ replied De Courcelles, with
dry lips, and a husky voice.

‘It is not _you_ 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.’

‘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 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.’

‘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.’

And with these kindly offers of help upon his lips, Mr Courtney
walked away, 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 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?

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 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 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
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.

‘Why, Henri, what brings you here so early?’ she asked, from the open
casement.

‘Didn’t I say last night that you would see me again to-day?’ he
answered, as he took her hand.

‘Yes, but it is hardly wise of you to walk about in the sun, unless
there is a necessity for it.’

‘You are right, Lizzie; but I am a messenger from Mrs Courtney; she
sent me down for the last bulletin of her daughter.’

Lizzie looked surprised.

‘How very strange! I sent up word by one of the servants half an hour
ago!’

He felt then he had not lied quite so cleverly as usual, but he got out
of it by saying,--

‘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.’

Liz’s face grew very grave.

‘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.’

‘Was she very bad with the fever?’ he asked.

‘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.’

‘Were you with her in her delirium? Did she--did she--_rave_ 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.’

‘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.’

Henri de Courcelles looked much relieved. He drew a long breath, and
straightened himself against the supports of the verandah. Liz regarded
him for a moment, and then said, in a low voice,--

‘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 _how_ 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.’

He only answered,--

‘I told you plainly you were wrong!’

‘I acknowledge it _now_, but _then_, 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 are enough
to make us think, Henri. _We_ 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.’

She spoke so plaintively that his feelings were touched on her behalf.

‘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.’

‘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 we may
have nothing to reproach ourselves with if--if--anything should occur
to part us.’

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.

‘Why, what should occur to part us?’ he answered lightly; ‘unless,
indeed, you elect to throw me over. But I thought we had settled that
point satisfactorily last night, Liz?’

‘Oh, I was not thinking of _that_!’ 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 _friends_, Henri--shall we not? true and steadfast friends,
whatever may occur?’

‘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.

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.

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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.


A 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 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,--

‘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.

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 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.

‘You are still very weak, Quita. Are you sure you feel equal to leaving
your room?’

‘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 _too_ particular.’

‘How _can_ he be too particular where _you_ are concerned,’ said Lizzie
gravely, 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.’

‘He is very good,’ replied Maraquita, in a low voice; ‘but I have not
been so _very_ ill, Lizzie, after all, and I am all right again now. I
hope nobody will make a fuss about it.’

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.

‘How soon do you expect Mr and Mrs Courtney to fetch you, Quita?’

‘I don’t know. I think the Doctor has walked up to the house to tell
them I am ready. Mamma will be surprised to find _you_ 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.

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.

‘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 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 _might_
have nursed you I gladly would.’

‘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.

Liz could not answer ‘_Yes_.’

‘I heard my father tell Mr and Mrs Courtney so,’ she said, after a
pause.

Her reticence alarmed Maraquita. She didn’t like Liz’s calm, collected
manner and short replies.

‘Well, I suppose your father doesn’t tell lies,’ she answered
brusquely.

‘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.’

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 own flesh
and blood; the flesh and blood, too, of some one who _ought_ 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.

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 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.

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.

‘Oh, my dear child!’ exclaimed her mother impressively, ‘I hope you
have 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.’

‘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 much as she can,
and do as little as she need, and she will soon be strong again.’

‘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.

‘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.’

‘That does not sound very grateful in you, my dear,’ said her father,
‘considering all that you owe to Dr Fellows, and Lizzie.’

‘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 much better under
her mother’s care. Take her home at once, Mr Courtney, and let this
exciting scene be ended.’

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.

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 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.

‘How did she bear the journey?’ asked Liz, as she caught sight of her
father. ‘She seemed to me too weak to attempt it.’

‘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, from the fear of detection. She will feel safer at the White
House, and her recovery will be more rapid in consequence.’

‘And meanwhile, she doesn’t care one jot if her infant lives or dies,’
said Liz contemptuously.

Dr Fellows regarded her with mild surprise.

‘You are very hard on her, my daughter. Cannot you make some allowance
for the terrible position in which she is placed?’

‘I cannot understand it,’ she answered.

‘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, 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.’

‘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 _cannot_ 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 world with my baby in my arms, and beg
from door to door by _his_ side, than run away as she has done, and
leave it to the care of strangers.’

‘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.’

‘Let me ask you at least, father, if you have seen Mammy Lila.’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘Do! What would you do?’ demanded Dr Fellows, with a white face.

‘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.’

‘What has De Courcelles to do with it?’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘And would that break your heart, my dear?’

‘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.’

‘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--’

At this moment a young negress, with a yellow handkerchief bound about
her woolly head, and the tears running down her black cheeks, hastily
entered the bungalow.

‘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.’

‘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.


‘Mammy Lila gone! Here’s a misfortune to upset all our plans,’ said
the Doctor.

‘Father, what are we to do?’

‘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 _sure_ that Mammy Lila is
gone?’

‘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 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.’

‘All right, Judy. I’m very sorry to hear it, but I’ll go back with you
all the same.’

He reached down his hat and stick as he spoke, and turned to his
daughter before he left the room.

‘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.’

The young negress placed the infant in Lizzie’s outstretched arms.

‘You’ll be glad to get it back again, I guess,’ she said slyly, as she
deposited it there.

‘I’m not so sure of that,’ replied Liz, taking no further notice of the
remark, as she carried her burden tenderly away.

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.

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 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.

‘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 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.’

‘Oh, father!’ cried Liz reproachfully, as she laid her lips against the
baby’s velvet cheek.

‘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 infant, and under any circumstances is not
likely to make old bones.’

‘I believe that I could rear it, with care and attention,’ repeated
Liz, wistfully.

‘It is impossible,’ repeated the Doctor briefly, as he left the room.

But in a few minutes he returned, and walked up to where his daughter
was still crooning over the baby.

‘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 whilst I live, I hold you to your promise of secrecy.’

‘And I will keep it,’ replied Lizzie, ‘as if it had been made to God.’

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.


Mr 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 Courtney exercised a proper _surveillance_ 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 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.

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 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.

‘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 rather sallow before it. What would Sir Russell Johnstone say
if he could see her now.’

‘Sir Russell Johnstone,’ repeated Quita, whilst Mr Courtney glanced at
his wife with a look of warning.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘I don’t believe that pleasurable excitement can hurt any one, Mr
Courtney, but if you think it desirable, I will drop the subject.’

‘No, no, mother, pray go on. What was it you were going to say? I want
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.’

‘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.’

‘Is Sir Russell going to marry, then, mamma?’

‘He wishes to do so, Quita.’

‘And is the lady in San Diego?’

‘He has told your father so, my dear.’

‘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.’

‘Sir Russell Johnstone, the Governor of San Diego, wants to marry
_me_!’ said Maraquita, in a dazed voice.

‘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.’

‘Sir Russell?’ repeated Quita, in the same dreamy tone. ‘But he is so
old, and so ugly.’

‘_Old!_’ 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 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!’

‘Nita! I won’t have our daughter persuaded to do anything against her
inclinations.’

‘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!’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘Oh, my dear girl, don’t talk such nonsense!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney.
‘You _must_ 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 will, though it’s your mother says it.’

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.

‘Do you think he is _sure_ to take me to England?’ she inquired, after
a pause.

‘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.’

‘And _we_ should have to part with her,’ said Mr Courtney, with a sigh.

‘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 _we_ shouldn’t visit England too, Mr Courtney. You’ve
promised to take me there, times out of mind.’

‘Yes, yes! unlikelier things have happened,’ said her husband,
brightening up.

‘And I should have a splendid wedding, shouldn’t I?’ mused Maraquita.

‘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 we would send
for your wedding dress to Paris, Quita. Monsieur de Courcelles was
telling me the other day that--’

But Mrs Courtney was summarily stopped in her recital by a burst of
hysterical tears from Maraquita.

‘Oh, no! I can’t do it; I don’t like him enough,’ she sobbed. ‘He is
old and ugly. I _won’t_ marry him. Don’t say any more about it.’

Of course both her parents were full of concern for her agitation.

‘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.’

‘You should have more sense,’ said 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.’

The two women supported the girl between them to her sleeping-chamber,
when Mrs Courtney despatched the black nurse for some iced lemonade.

‘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.’

‘But, mother,’ whispered Maraquita back again, with her face hidden in
her mother’s sleeve, ‘there--there is _some one else_.’

‘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 “_some one else_.” 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 _him_. 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--’

‘Hush, mother!’ cried Maraquita. ‘Don’t speak his name: I cannot bear
it.’

‘He has behaved like a villain to you, my dear, and you ought to
despise him 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.’

‘I will--I will--’

‘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 _hope_, Maraquita, that you
won’t let this folly interfere with it.’

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.

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, mamma,’ replied Quita
uneasily. ‘All I have to think about now, I suppose, is whether I
shall marry Sir Russell Johnstone or not.’

‘My dear girl, you make me miserable by even suggesting a doubt on the
subject. I am sure of one thing,--if you _don’t_ 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.’

‘_Julie Latreille!_’ cried Maraquita. ‘Why, she can’t hold a candle to
me! Every one said so at the last regimental ball.’

‘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 _very_ much in love with you, Maraquita; I never saw a
man more so.’

‘Well, he won’t expect me to be in love with him, I hope.’

‘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.’

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, 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.

‘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.’

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, 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.

‘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 a good old creature, but
I’d rather be left to myself.’

‘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 _me_ 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.’

‘No, no,’ replied the girl fretfully. ‘That would be worse than having
Jessica in my room, for I should never be certain _when_ you were
coming. I want to be _alone_, mother--really and truly _alone_--and
when the darkness falls, I shall sleep soundly.’

‘Very well, my dear,’ said Mrs Courtney. ‘If it is your whim, you
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.’

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.

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. 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 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.

‘I thinking so,’ mused the old woman; ‘I _sure_ 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 _kill him_. And _I’ll_ 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! _Dat_ would finish him once and for ever.’

Meanwhile, Maraquita (for it was 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 _not_ 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 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.

‘Quita, my darling,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have returned to me at last!’

The girl did not speak, but she clung to his embrace as if she would
never leave it.

‘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.’

He placed her in the chair from which he had risen, as he spoke, and
threw himself on his knees beside her.

‘Do you know what I have suffered during your illness?’ he exclaimed.
‘I thought the suspense would have driven me mad. And then the awful
fear lest you should betray yourself. But tell me, Quita, is all danger
over? Is our secret safe?’

‘Yes!’ she answered wearily. ‘It is over.’

‘Thank Heaven for that! And no one is the wiser.’

‘No one except Dr Fellows, of course. I couldn’t deceive _him_. But
even Liz does not know. No one knows except him--and you and me.’

‘And the child, dearest. Where is it?’

The girl gave a sudden gesture of repugnance.

‘Don’t speak of it: I cannot bear the thought. I am trying so hard to
forget everything. And yet, Henri, I _must_ speak, for this once only.
Dr Fellows has sent it away to some one 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?’

‘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.

‘I don’t know _what_ 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 _kill_ me.’

‘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.’

‘Ah, don’t talk nonsense!’ she said, shrinking a little from him. ‘You
know, Henri, that I am _not_ your wife.’

‘But why should you not be so, Maraquita? Why not take the bull by the
horns, and let me confess everything to your father?’

‘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.’

‘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 “_Yes_,” Maraquita, for the
sake of our child,’ he whispered.

‘It is _impossible_!’ 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘Heavens! Maraquita! Can Mrs Courtney suspect anything?’

‘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.’

De Courcelles turned pale.

‘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
_knew_, that it could not be true.’

‘But it _is_ true, Henri. Sir Russell Johnstone, the Governor of the
island, has proposed for me, and my father insists on my accepting
him.’

‘And you _will_?’ cried De Courcelles, in a voice of anguish.

‘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 _you_. And
_this_ 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.’

‘You will do it!’ exclaimed Henri de Courcelles fiercely; ‘I feel that
you _will do it_!’

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 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.

‘You cannot! You _dare not_!’ he continued. ‘You are in my power,
Maraquita, and I defy you to throw me over.’

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.

‘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?’

‘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 pressed more closely
upon you, to save yourself by flying with me?’

‘I will!--on one condition, Henri.’

‘What is it?’

‘That you will shelter me from the shame you have brought upon me. _I_
dare not do anything in the matter, but you are cleverer than I am,
and may manage it without detection. Only get _it_--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.’

‘You give me your solemn word to that effect?’

‘My solemn word, Henri,’ she answered, with downcast eyes.

‘Then it shall be done--if I have to steal it away with my own hands.
But after we are married, surely _then_, Maraquita--’ he said wistfully.

‘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.’

‘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 _my wife_, and no
one shall wrest you from me.’

‘_No one_--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 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 _that_ 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.

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 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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.


Meanwhile 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 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.

‘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 _mine_, I would die sooner than give up my mother’s right to feed
and cherish you, yes, even if the world stoned me for it. How I wish I
might bring you up for my own little girl--my little tiny Maraquita!’

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.

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 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 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.

Liz sat in her room with the baby 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 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.

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?

The little child was sleeping soundly at last, and Liz laid it on the
pillows of her bed, and commenced her morning 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.

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 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.

Her mind reverted to her early days, when she used to wonder why _her_
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.

Meanwhile Henri de Courcelles had completed his journey, and reined
in 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 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 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.

‘Ah, sahib! take care of the little baby!’ she cried warningly.

‘Who’s that? Jerusha! Then keep your cub out of my way, will you? Now
then, my men, are you all ready? March!’

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.

‘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.

‘You dare beat _us_?’ she demanded menacingly.

‘I am not going to beat you, but I dare do anything, so don’t be a
fool,’ he replied, half laughing.

‘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.’

‘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.’

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 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.

‘Now, are you going?’ he asked her sharply.

‘I telling sahib I’m too sick.’

‘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.

‘You don’t _dare_ 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, and made the youngster
squall. Jerusha’s big black eyes flashed fire on him.

‘You coward,’ she cried, ‘to strike your own child! Some day I pay you
out for this. Some day _my_ whip strike _you_.’

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.

‘Ask Miss Lizzie to fill it with fresh sherbet or milk for me, Rosa,
and tell her I am coming in to breakfast with her by-and-by.’

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 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.

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 _one_ 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
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 _her_ 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 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,
and she lied so glibly that at first he did not suspect her of an
untruth.

‘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.”’

‘That’s a curious message, Rosa. What does Miss Liz want _you_ for?’
asked De Courcelles, as he turned his steps towards the bungalow, with
the yellow girl by his side.

‘How can _I_ tell Massa Courcelles? P’r’aps Miss Liz want me to mind de
baby a bit. P’r’aps she want to ask my ’pinion. Miss Liz know how well
I look after my poor little Carlo ’fore de fever come and taken him to
heaven.’

The words naturally attracted the overseer’s attention.

‘_The baby!_’ he exclaimed, taken off his guard. ‘What do you mean?’

Rosa’s cunning eyes looked full into his own.

‘You not _know_?’ 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.’

‘Rosa, you must be dreaming. You are lying to me,’ said Henri de
Courcelles, suddenly alive to the danger of the girl’s discovery. ‘How
can Miss Liz have a baby at the bungalow?’

‘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.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ exclaimed De Courcelles; ‘and don’t presume to
speak to me in that way of Miss Liz.’

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 he could not doubt _which_ 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.

‘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.’

The yellow girl was standing before the open casement, and beckoning to
him as she spoke, and something 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.

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.

‘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.

Fearful of what discovery might follow her intrusion, De Courcelles
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.

‘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.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Lizzie, though she knew well enough, as she
stood before them white and trembling.

‘Ah, Miss Lizzie, you berry sly. 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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘She deceived you,’ said Lizzie. ‘I have not seen her nor spoken to her
this morning.’

‘I know dat berry well,’ cried Rosa impudently; ‘but I come to see dat
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.

She was the first to speak.

‘Had you any knowledge of Rosa’s intentions when she brought you here?’
she asked quietly.

‘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 _she_ was to
accompany me back again. On the way, she told me a story that I found
it almost impossible to believe.’

‘And what was the story?’

‘That--that--you have a white infant at the bungalow. Is it true?’

‘You can see for yourself that it is true! What then?’

‘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.

But she was silent.

‘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.’

‘Why should it be impossible?’ she answered; ‘might I not have found
it, or adopted it?’

‘Nonsense!’ he rejoined impatiently; ‘where did you find it then?’

Again she was silent.

‘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?’

‘It is nothing to me,’ returned Lizzie proudly, ‘_what_ Rosa may think
or say.’

‘But it may be a great deal to _me_. 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--’

‘What do they _dare_ to say?’ she exclaimed, as she turned and faced
him, with the infant on her breast.

‘That that infant is your own!’

There was the silence of a minute between them, and then she said, in a
low voice,--

‘And what do _you_ say?’

‘That I require to be satisfied who it belongs to, and that you must
tell me.’

‘_I cannot!_’

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 _him_. 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.

‘_You cannot?_’ he repeated, in a voice of feigned astonishment. ‘But I
say _you must_, or everything shall be over between us!’

‘Henri!’ she exclaimed earnestly, ‘think--think what you are doing.
You cannot possibly suspect _me_! Why, I--I--_love you_!’ she ended
falteringly, as if that confession must clear her at once, and for ever.

‘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, _who is_?’

Lizzie turned away from him proudly.

‘Go and find out for yourself,’ she said. ‘If you can suspect me even
for 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.’

‘Then I am to believe Rosa’s story?’

‘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.’

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.

‘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 _may_ 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.’

For the first time, the extent of the sacrifice she was making seemed
to strike Lizzie’s mind.

‘No! no!’ she screamed, rushing 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?’

‘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.’

‘You shall _not_ 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 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.’

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.

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.

‘He is gone!’ she exclaimed wildly. ‘See here, Henri, he is
dead--_dead_, and can never now release me from my oath! O God! have
pity on me!’

And with that she fell to weeping over the prostrate form.

‘_Dead!_’ 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.’

‘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.’

‘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 that he had unconsciously, but surely, obeyed Maraquita’s
behest, and might boldly claim the reward she had promised for it.


END OF VOL. I.


COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.





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