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.

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.

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.

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.’

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.

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.’

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.

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.

---

VOL. II.

Chapter I

He left Liz weeping over the dead body of her father. How paltry all other troubles seemed to be, as she did so. She had no power, at that moment, to realise any fact but one,—that he had left her, and without a warning. He, who had been her sole protector and companion, beside whom she had walked every moment of her life, sharing his knowledge, and his duties, and his cares, had gone forth into the dreamland without her, and for the future she must struggle through life as best she might, alone. Liz was not ignorant of the cause of her father’s death, but she had been quite unprepared for it. She had known for some time past that he had a weak heart, but men lived with such, sometimes to their three score years and ten. He had passed a tranquil and unexciting life. The passions which had raged stormily perhaps in his youth had forsaken him in his latter days, and he had appeared likely to live on to a good old age. But the events of the last week had greatly upset him. Liz had no doubt, as she looked at his pale, calm features, that his sudden death lay, in a great measure, at Maraquita’s door, and the fact did not make her feel more tenderly towards her adopted sister. But the infant was wailing in her arms, and she felt that something must be done at once. This was no time for weeping, or inaction. She turned on her heel, with set features, and teeth closely clenched together, and passed into the outer room to summon her negress attendant Chloe to her aid. Chloe was conspicuous only by her absence, but on the threshold of the outer door she found the yellow girl, Rosa, slowly rocking herself to and fro.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Lizzie sternly. ‘Have you not brought me into enough trouble already?’

The girl turned round and caught the folds of her dress, and buried her face in them, crying. The coloured people are very emotional, and a sudden remorse had stabbed the depths of poor Rosa’s heart.

‘Oh, Miss Lizzie,’ she sobbed, ‘I’se so sorry the poor Doctor dead! Massa Courcelles tell me so as he went out. The dear good Doctor, who was so berry kind to me in my sickness, and so good to my little Carlo, and now he gone too, and me nebber see him any more, and my heart is broke, Miss Liz, my heart is broke!’

This tribute to her dead father’s virtues affected Liz more than anything else could have done.

‘If you are so sorry for his loss, Rosa,’ she answered gently, ‘what do you suppose I must feel. I seem to have lost everything to-day—everything,’ she added, in a vague and weary tone.

‘Oh, Missy Liz, I’se so sorry!’ repeated Rosa. ‘But what can I do to help you, and to take some of dis trouble off you? Let me do something, Missy Liz, to show I’se real sorry.’

‘You can go up to the White House, Rosa, and tell Mr Courtney of—of—this, and say I should like to see him as soon as he can come to me. I can’t find Chloe anywhere.’

‘Ah! dat Chloe no good. She too stupid!’ cried Rosa, with all a negress’s jealousy. ‘And may I come back, too, Missy Liz, with Massa Courtney, and help you nurse the baby, same as you helped me with little Carlo?’

The allusion to the child brought the trouble it had caused her too vividly to Lizzie’s mind. She dropped into a chair, and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Rosa! Rosa! you have spoiled my life for me. How could you be so cruel?’

The yellow girl crawled on her knees to the side of the Doctor’s daughter.

‘Missy Liz, what I done so bad? Isn’t dat baby your own baby, then?’

‘Of course it isn’t! How could you think such a thing of me? It is a little nurse-child which was left in charge of my dear father, and I was minding it for him. But you made Monsieur de Courcelles believe that it belongs to me, and you have parted us for ever. He was to have been my husband, Rosa, but he never will be so now; never—never!’

Rosa’s eyes opened with surprise.

‘Missy Liz, you must tell him I’se a liar. I know noting of de baby, only I see it on your bed, and I’se so sorry I speak to Massa Courcelles about it. It was de debbil spoke, Missy Liz, and not me. Something seem to come in my head and say dat chile like my little Carlo, and you no better den me. But I see now I’se all wrong, and you too good to do such a drefful thing. You tell Massa Courcelles I’se a liar, and it’ll be all right again, Missy Liz.’

‘No, Rosa, it will never be right again in the way you mean. I did tell Monsieur de Courcelles what you say, but he refused to believe me. No one will believe me now, I am afraid,’ said Liz mournfully, ‘and I must bear the brunt of my own rash promise.’

‘Oh! Missy Liz, must you keep dat baby dat isn’t yours, and take de trouble of it all your life?’

‘I think so, Rosa. I have nowhere to send it; and you would not have me turn it out on the cold world alone? No, my dear dead father left it to me as a sacred charge,’ cried Lizzie, weeping, ‘and I will guard it, whatever it may cost me. It will be something to do for his sake.’

‘Oh, Miss Lizzie!’ exclaimed Rosa, awed by a display of heroism she could not understand, ‘you berry good woman! I nebber know till dis day how good a woman you are. Let me stay with you, Miss Lizzie. Send dat Chloe back to huts, and let me be your servant, ’stead of her. Chloe don’t know nuffin of children. She not had a little boy, like me. Let me nurse dat baby for you, and I will be faithful, trust me, Missy Liz, and nebber let de debbil speak through my mouth again.’

‘I believe you, Rosa,’ replied Lizzie. ‘I believe you are sorry for the mischief you have done, and that you would undo it if you could. You were a good mother to little Carlo, and you would be a kind nurse to this poor little one. If it can be managed, it shall be arranged so, but we can do nothing without the leave of Mr Courtney. Go now and tell him of the grief I am in, and we will talk of these things another day.’

‘But I will come back and hold de baby for you, Missy Liz!’ exclaimed the yellow girl, as she set off towards the White House.

Liz walked back into the death chamber, and mechanically performed the necessary offices to prepare her father’s body for the grave. She did not weep again as she did so. The blow of her two great losses, coming so quickly one upon the other, had stunned her, and dried up the sources of her tears. She would have time to think and weep, she thought, by-and-by. When Mr Courtney arrived post-haste in answer to her summons, his grief appeared to be scarcely less than her own. He had been sincerely and deeply attached to this erring friend of his youthful days, and had never anticipated losing him so soon. He shed tears freely over the silent corpse, and kept on assuring Lizzie that her future should be one of his first cares.

‘Don’t let that trouble you, my dear,’ he reiterated. ‘I looked upon your dear father as my brother, and you shall never miss his protection whilst I can extend it to you. From this moment, Lizzie, I shall regard you as my daughter, and as soon as the sad ceremonies which we must go through, are concluded, I shall carry you off to the White House, and consider you second only in my affection to Maraquita.’

‘Dear Mr Courtney, you are too good to me,’ gasped Lizzie, ‘but—but—please don’t speak of my future to me to-day.’

‘No, no, of course not. It was thoughtless of me,’ said the planter; ‘but I did it with the view to set your mind at ease. To-day we must give up entirely to thoughts of my dear and valued friend.’

He imagined that the girl’s mind was too distracted to dwell on anything but her great loss; but Lizzie had remembered that before the morrow, the scandal that was being spread abroad concerning her would reach his ears, and render her unfit in his eyes to be the companion of his daughter.

When he had told her what arrangements he had made for the funeral, which (according to the custom in hot climates) was to take place that evening, Mr Courtney, with a farewell grasp of his dead friend’s hand, turned to leave the bungalow, when his eye fell upon the yellow girl, Rosa, squatting on the floor with the baby in her arms.

‘What infant is that?’ he demanded indifferently, for it was so wrapped up in flannel that he could not see its face.

Liz had anticipated the question, and dreaded it; but she felt evasion would be useless, and had not attempted to send the child out of his sight.

‘It is a little girl which was confided to my dear father’s care,’ she answered, in a low voice. ‘And he was going to consult Dr Martin at the Fort about a nurse to take the charge of it, when he was called away.’

Mr Courtney’s eyes opened somewhat at her explanation.

‘Is it a white child then?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is a white child,’ replied Lizzie, with a deep sigh, as she stood trembling at what might follow. But Mr Courtney said no more on the subject. Perhaps his mind was too full of his lost friend to think of minor things, anyway he left the bungalow without another word or look, and Lizzie breathed more freely when he had gone. She spent the remainder of the day beside the remains of the father whom she had loved so well, and when the sun had sunk in the west, and the cool sea breezes commenced to blow over San Diego, she followed his coffin to the little European burial ground, which was situated on the top of a hill, and in full view of the glorious ocean. She saw that there were many friends, both white and coloured, gathered round the open grave but she was in no fit condition to recognise who they were. Only, as the last words of the solemn service were concluded, and she heard the sods of earth rattle on the coffin lid, and felt as if she must throw herself in with them, and be buried with all she loved best in this world, she found some one supporting her failing steps on either side, and looking up saw she was standing between Mr Courtney and Captain Norris.

‘Come, my dear child,’ whispered the former. ‘It is all over now. Let us see you safely to your home.’

They led her between them back to the empty bungalow, and the three friends sat down together in the sitting-room, whilst Rosa squatted in the verandah with Maraquita’s baby in her arms. Liz, making an effort to battle with her emotion, busied herself with setting some light refreshment before her guests. Mr Courtney drank a glass of iced sherbet in silence, and then cleared his throat as though to force himself to speak.

‘Lizzie, my dear, I have a good deal to say to you, and I wish to say it now. I might leave it till to-morrow, but I think it will do you good to fix your mind at once upon business, and to settle what you are to do in the future.’

Lizzie turned a little paler than she had been. She had understood her future to be settled that morning. But she guessed why it required further explanation now.

‘Captain Norris, than whom I think your dear father had no warmer friend, has been talking to me on the subject this afternoon, and has consented to become the guardian and trustee of your interests.’

‘I am of age,’ interrupted Lizzie, with open eyes; ‘I require no guardian.’

‘Stop, my dear, and let me finish what I have to say. You may not require a personal guardian, but your monetary interests may need looking after. I am not likely to forget you at my death, Lizzie.’

‘Indeed, Mr Courtney, you are too good to me,’ said Liz,—‘as you were to my poor father,’ she added, in a lower voice.

‘Your father was my dearest friend: I can never forget that,’ replied the planter; ‘and I am only following the dictates of my affection for him in making a suitable provision for his daughter. I have been thinking the matter over deeply, Lizzie, and I have decided that I cannot spare you from amongst my coolies. Why should you not carry on the work from which your father has been so suddenly called away? I know you are competent to do so, from what he himself has told me, and in any difficult cases you can always call in the assistance of the Doctor from the Fort. What I propose is that you should continue to live in this bungalow (the furniture and effects of which I shall make over to you as your own property), and to work amongst the coloured people; and I will gladly pay you the same remuneration as heretofore. Don’t you think it will be the best plan, Lizzie, and that you will be happier if you bravely try to forget your grief, in carrying on a life of activity and usefulness?’

‘I am sure it will be best,’ she answered, in a low tone.

Her pride, which had made her divine at once the cause of her benefactor’s change of mind, would have also prompted her to refuse his offers of assistance, but she was helpless in the matter. She had no friends to go to, no resources to fall back upon. What could she have done, left alone in San Diego, but live on charity, which she would rather have died than accept? Mr Courtney’s proposal was at least not a humiliating one. He offered her money in return for her labour, and she was resolved to earn it, and thanked Heaven she was capable of doing so. That he should not even have alluded to his promise of the morning wounded but did not surprise her. He had heard the wretched slander, which was doubtless already going the round of the plantation, concerning her. Henri de Courcelles had, perhaps, repeated it, and Mr Courtney already regretted that he had held out hopes he could not fulfil. Well, he should not read her disappointment in her eyes. She would put a brave face on the matter, and battle (as best she could) for herself; for the oath she had taken to her dead father was doubly sacred, now that all hope of release from it was over.

‘We will do all in our power to make your life comfortable,’ continued Mr Courtney; ‘and you may always depend on me, Lizzie, as your friend.’

He did not include his wife’s and daughter’s friendship with his own, and Lizzie noticed the omission, and shrunk under it.

‘Mr Courtney,’ she said, in a firm voice, though her eyes were full of tears, ‘I thank you for your offers of assistance, and I accept them gratefully. I did not know till a few days back, the whole extent to which my poor father was indebted to you, but I shall never forget it, and if I can ever repay it in the slightest degree, I will.’

‘Hush, my dear! It was nothing. Don’t speak of it now.’

‘It was his life, Mr Courtney, and I should not be his daughter were I unmindful of it. I should have liked to relieve you of the burden, now he is gone, but I don’t know what I could do, without friends, and in a foreign country. So I will remain on (as you are good enough to propose), and work among your plantation hands, and do all I possibly can to return your kindness to us both.’

‘Lizzie, my dear, I don’t wish you to think of it as if it were a favour. The obligation is quite as much on my side. And you mustn’t speak of yourself as friendless, either, my dear. You have friends on all sides, I am sure of that. You know what I feel towards you; and here is Captain Norris, grieving only second to myself for your loss; and every one in San Diego loves and respects you. You may take my word for that, Lizzie.’

Mr Courtney had risen, as if to take his departure, whilst he spoke, and now stood in the doorway, with his straw hat in his hand, and beckoned her towards him.

‘By the way,’ he added, in a lower tone, ‘what do you intend to do about that child, Lizzie?’ jerking his head towards Rosa and the baby.

‘What should I do about it?’ she returned. ‘I know no place to send it to. It was in the charge of Mammy Lila, but she died of the fever. I suppose I must keep it here.’

‘Where are its parents?’ demanded the planter inquisitively.

‘It has none, Mr Courtney, or none who will own it.’

‘Dear me! That is very strange, and very awkward. Who confided it to your father’s care?’

‘I am not at liberty to tell you, sir.’

‘Do you know then?’

She paused for a moment, and then answered, in a husky tone,—

‘Yes.’

‘And you will not tell me, Lizzie?’

‘I am bound under a solemn oath, Mr Courtney, not to reveal anything about that child, and I must beg of you not to question me.’

‘It looks bad for you, my dear, and may be the cause of a great deal of future unhappiness. There are not so many Europeans on the island that such an event can occur without comment; and if you persist in holding your tongue on the subject, people will talk about it, and to your disadvantage.’

‘Then they must talk, Mr Courtney,’ replied Lizzie boldly, though she had turned very pale. ‘I cannot break my promise to my father, for any consideration, not even to save my reputation.’

‘Lizzie,’ whispered the planter presently, ‘promise me at least to send the child away. Let me send it away for you. You don’t know what people are saying about you. Even De Courcelles has heard the rumour, and came to me for an explanation of it. I will ask you no questions, my dear, but let me help you in the matter by sending the infant to one of the sister islands. I cannot bear to think that any one should dare to say a word against you, for your father’s sake.’

‘You are very kind, Mr Courtney, but I have made up my mind on this subject, and the child will remain with me. Sending her away now to the care of a hireling, will not remove the stain her presence here has cast upon my character; and I have reasons for wishing to bring her up myself. If you object to it, I will relieve you of the burden of both of us; but that infant is my father’s last charge to me, and I will keep it.’

‘If you would only trust me with the secret of its birth, I could fight your battle with you,’ said Mr Courtney sadly.

‘I will trust no one, sir. I have lost all that I cared for in this world, through its means, and I will at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I have remained true to myself.’

‘Very well, my dear; good-night; and remember I am still your friend,’ replied the planter, as he walked slowly away.

Lizzie looked after him for a moment, and then returning to the apartment, and regardless of the presence of Hugh Norris, she flung herself into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears.

‘Still my friend!’ she repeated. ‘Yes, but a friend without any trust or confidence left in me. Ah! what is the use of his assurances? I can read his heart too well! I have not a friend left in the world.’

Chapter II

As she said the words, Captain Norris sprang towards her.

‘Not a friend left in the world, Liz! Oh! how can you say such a cruel thing whilst I am here?’

She could not answer him immediately for weeping, but she stretched forth her hand and laid it on his arm.

‘Forgive me, Captain Norris. I know that you are my friend, but grief makes us all selfish. Yet that they should think such a thing of me,—that even Mr Courtney, who has known me from a little child, should suspect me of so unworthy an action, it is bitterly, bitterly hard.’

‘You are speaking in riddles to me, Lizzie! Of what do they suspect you? Surely of nothing of which you need be ashamed? If so, they must answer to me for it. Your dead father honoured me with his friendship, and no one shall insult his daughter whilst I am able to prevent it.’

‘I should have known that I might count upon your championship, Captain Norris; but it is useless. I have entangled myself in a net from which I see no prospect of freedom. You must leave me to bear the consequences by myself.’

‘I shall do no such thing!’ replied the Captain warmly. ‘What is the worth of friendship if it cannot stand by you in the time of need? Confide in me, Lizzie. Tell me your trouble, and let us devise a way out of it together.’

‘We cannot do that,’ replied Lizzie mournfully; ‘but you shall hear it, all the same. If I did not tell you, San Diego would soon do so. All the hands are talking of it by this time. Even that yellow girl in the verandah is ready to believe me to have fallen to a level with herself.’

‘You alarm me!’ exclaimed Hugh Norris. ‘What is it they dare to say of you?’

‘That that child is mine!’

‘What child? I did not know there was a child here.’

‘You are the last to hear of it then,’ replied Lizzie bitterly. ‘The smallest lad on the plantation has discussed it before now. I mean the infant which Rosa has in her arms. It is not mine! I hope you will believe me when I say so. But I have no means of proving the truth of what I say.’

‘You surprise me beyond measure,’ said Captain Norris. ‘In what does the difficulty lie, and why cannot you appeal to the real parents to help you out of it?’

‘Captain Norris, you must not question me too closely, lest I should betray a secret I have sworn to keep. Be satisfied with what I tell you. It was only yesterday my father gave me that child to nurse for him. He asked me to keep it through the night, and in the morning he would get a proper person to take charge of it. You have heard the sequel. By the morning, God had called him away, and I am left with this burden on my hands for ever!’

‘But, Lizzie, forgive me if I do not follow you. What reason is there for your keeping the child? What interest had your father in it? Why should you not send it to the people he intended to entrust it to?’

‘Perhaps I might have done so if this suspicion had not fallen upon me; but now, what would be the use of it? Absent or present, the child will be regarded as mine. I shall have to bear the stigma; I may as well have the satisfaction of knowing I have fulfilled my dead father’s wishes.’

‘Do you know who are the parents of the child?’

Lizzie was silent.

‘I see that you do. Surely they will never permit you innocently to bear this awful shame?’

‘Captain Norris, when my father first showed me that child, he extracted a solemn oath from me never to reveal anything I knew or might guess concerning it. It is useless your questioning me. My tongue is tied, and whatever my silence may cost me, I am bound to endure.’

‘But surely your lover, De Courcelles, does not believe this slanderous lie about you, Lizzie? He will stand up in your defence, whatever the world may say, and fight it with you?’

‘Oh, don’t talk of him! Don’t mention his name!’ cried Lizzie, with a sudden burst of grief. ‘He does believe it, Captain Norris, and he has cast me off. We are parted for ever. Our engagement is at an end.’

‘The cur!’ exclaimed Norris contemptuously.

‘You shall not call him so! What else could he do?’ rejoined Lizzie hastily. ‘What would you do, if the woman you had engaged yourself to marry, proved to be a wanton? You would say she was not fit to be your wife, and you would be right. Until this stigma is lifted off me, I am not fit to become the wife of any honest man.’

‘But it does not rest upon you, in my estimation,’ replied her companion. ‘I do not believe it; no one should ever make me do so except yourself. I would take your word against that of a thousand witnesses, Lizzie.’

‘Thank you, thank you!’ she exclaimed, reddening with pleasure at the sound of his honest voice. ‘You are indeed a friend in the time of need. But Monsieur de Courcelles thinks otherwise. He has told me to my face that unless I will divulge the names of the parents of this child, everything between us must be at an end. And so it is at an end. I cannot break my word to the dead. Besides—there are other reasons why I should be true to my trust.’

‘You will at least tell me one thing, Lizzie. You know to whom this child belongs, do you not? I ask it in your own interests.’

‘I do.’

‘Then go to them, my dear, and tell them the dilemma in which the promise you have given on their account has placed you. Ask them to release you from it. Surely no one could be so inhuman as to desire their shame (for I presume shame is at the bottom of this mystery) to spoil the life of an innocent woman? Oh! if I only knew their names myself, I would proclaim them far and wide, until I forced them to release you from this cruel bondage.’

‘It is impossible, Captain Norris!’

‘Impossible for you to go to them?’

‘Impossible that my going could do any good in the matter. I cannot rid myself of the blame, without shifting it on the shoulders of another, and that my oath forbids me to do. Pray leave me, Captain Norris. Leave me to bear it as best I may—alone! You heard what Mr Courtney has kindly proposed,—that I shall live on here, and continue my dear father’s work. I mean to do so, and if God spares the child, it shall live with me. The coloured people will not despise us. They have too many of such cases amongst themselves, and for the rest, I am strong enough to suffer without sinking under it.’

‘But not alone, dear Lizzie!’ exclaimed Hugh Norris, taking her hand. ‘If your engagement to Monsieur de Courcelles is indeed broken off, let me speak again. You would not listen to me last week on his account; listen to me now on your own. Come to me, and let me fight the battle of life for all three of us—you and me and the child. If it were really your child, Lizzie, I should say the same. When I told you I loved you, I did not mean that I loved some ideal creature raised from my own imagination, but you—yourself, with all your faults (if you have faults) and follies (which cannot be greater than my own), and am willing to condone everything, for the privilege of loving you. Let me try to make you forget this sorrow. In England, amidst new scenes and new friends, you may learn to feel differently, even towards me, and look back on San Diego as a bad dream, that has passed away for ever.’

Lizzie pressed his hand gratefully.

‘How good you are to me,’ she answered, ‘and how true! I am sure you will make the best and most loving of husbands, and some woman will be very happy with you. But that woman will not be me! I would not wrong you, my dear friend, by accepting your generous proposal. Why should I cast this shadow over your honourable life, or profess to offer you a heart not worthy of your acceptance? I love Henri de Courcelles! Ah! don’t shrink from me. I know he is unworthy and unjust, nor can I believe he has ever really cared for me; but he managed to win my love, and I cannot take it back from him so suddenly. By-and-by, perhaps, when this wound is somewhat healed, and time has enabled me to see more clearly, I shall be strong enough to shake off the fascination that enthralls me; but just now, I can only weep over its decay, as I weep over the grave of my lost father. And so you see how utterly unworthy I am of the noble offer you have made me.’

‘Not in my eyes,’ persisted Hugh Norris. ‘I can never think of you but as the dearest and most self-sacrificing of women, and I shall keep the place in my heart open for you to my life’s end. But I will worry you no further now. Only say if I can do anything for you, Lizzie, before I go.’

‘Nothing,’ she sighed. ‘Unless it be to come to see me again, and comfort me as you have done to-day.’

His face brightened with pleasure at her proposal, and he acceded to it joyfully.

‘I will come up to-morrow if it will not be too soon,’ he answered. ‘I have not landed my coolies yet, and the Trevelyan may be in port for some weeks yet.’

‘How is that?’ demanded Lizzie.

‘On account of this fever, and also of the town riots. My consignee is afraid of both moral and physical infection. There was an attack planned on Government House last night, and only just discovered in time. The rebels had laid a train of gunpowder right under the state rooms. There would have been a fearful sacrifice of life had they succeeded.’

‘How terrible! Were they caught?’

‘Unfortunately they were not, for they got off to the Alligator Swamp as soon as the alarm was given. And no one dares follow them there: the danger is too great. They are watching outside it, however, and as soon as they come out, they will be killed or arrested.’

‘Poor creatures,’ said Liz, with a shudder, ‘they will not be able to hold out long. Twelve hours in the Alligator Swamp is said to be certain death. Its poisonous atmosphere kills all those who escape the alligators. It is too fearful to think of.’

‘Yes, I fancy the poor devils will be forced to surrender, and they will get no quarter from the Governor, Sir Russell Johnstone. He is in a great state of alarm about himself, and resolved to stamp the insurrection out at any cost.’

‘One cannot blame him. It is a case in which the few must suffer for the many. Is the Governor a nice man, Captain Norris?’

‘So-so. A very ordinary-looking Englishman,—more fit to till his own acres, I should imagine, than to govern a colony. He has certainly done little as yet to quell the ill-feeling in San Diego, which seems to be increasing every day. But I shall not be able to keep my coolies on board much longer. There are six hundred of them, and I shall not be sorry when their backs are turned. I have had enough of their company on the way from Calcutta.’

‘But they will make a bad exchange, I expect, from the hold of the Trevelyan to the cotton and sugar plantations. I have heard poor father say you spoil your coolies, Captain Norris, and make them quite dissatisfied with their reception in the West Indies.’

‘Oh, that’s a libel!’ cried the young man, smiling. ‘I may have tried to make their life aboard ship as little irksome as possible, but it has gone no further. But I am afraid they are mostly shipped under false pretences, and led to expect less work and more pay than they are ever likely to get in these islands. Their existence, at the best, is hardly worth living.’

‘You are right there, and no one who has dwelt amongst them, as I have, could fail to sympathise with their troubles. They have much to bear, and little to compensate them for it. And with all their faults, they are a patient people, although very impulsive. That poor girl in the verandah did me a bad turn this morning, but she is ready to break her heart about it now.’

‘Ah, Missy Liz, I’se so sorry!’ cried Rosa, who had overheard the words that concerned herself.

‘But you can’t undo the mischief, you see, Rosa, so try and make up for it by being a faithful servant to your mistress now,’ said Hugh Norris, as he passed over the threshold on his way home.

The yellow girl did not take correction from a stranger very well. She shrugged her shoulders, and pulled a face after the retreating form of Captain Norris, as she entered the bungalow with her infant charge.

‘What business of that Massa Norris to speak me?’ she inquired, pouting. ‘If he want to scold some one, he’d better go and find dat coolie girl Judy, what took the baby first. She’s a berry bad girl—rude and impident—with a tongue as long as an alligator’s.’

‘Do you mean Mammy Lila’s granddaughter?’ inquired Lizzie. ‘When did you see her, Rosa?’

‘Oh! she’s big enough to be seen, Missy Liz, and she’s just as cunning as they’re made. Judy has left Shanty Hill now, and come to live alongside of her own people, and dis morning Massa Courcelles has given her work on the plantation. And dat gal’s tongue—how it do run!’

‘About me, I suppose?’ said Liz bitterly.

‘Yes, Missy Liz—that’s just it—about you. Judy tells every one how you went up to Shanty Hill in the middle of the night wid dis poor little baby in your arms, and how you was so ill and weak you nearly tumbled down on de floor; and Mammy Lila took de baby, and you tell her, “Silence and secrecy,” which means, “Don’t tell nuffin to nobody on your life.”’

‘And every one believes it was my own baby I took to Mammy Lila, Rosa, the same as you did?’

‘What can they believe, Missy Liz? I didn’t know what to believe myself. Dere’s not too many quite white babies knocking about de island, you know, and dis little one has no coloured blood in it. Dat’s plain to be seen. And dat Judy is so impident. She’d say anything. She says she skeered you so when she brought the baby back agin when Mammy Lila died, dat you nearly fainted, and it was de shock and de trouble that has killed de poor Doctor right away.’

‘Well, well, Rosa, don’t speak of it any more at present. It turns my heart sick to hear it. Take the infant into my room, and put it to bed. Judy’s talk, however untrue, can do me no further harm; and you mustn’t forget, whilst judging her, that you thought and said pretty much the same yourself.’

‘Ah, yes, Missy Liz; but den I’se berry sorry, and I’ll be a good gal to you now,’ replied Rosa, with the nigger’s ready excuse for anything they may have done wrong.

‘And I believe you, so let the matter rest,’ said Lizzie, as the yellow girl disappeared with the baby, and she sat down at the table, resting her head upon her hand.

What a difference twenty-four hours had made in her life! Twenty-four hours ago she had possessed a father who loved her, a lover who respected her, friends who believed in her, a good name and a spotless reputation. Now, she seemed to have lost everything at one fell blow. Her father was gone, her lover lost, her friends stood afar off. She was publicly spoken of as an unmarried mother, and Maraquita’s sin was laid at her door. And she had no means of repudiating the scandal. Nothing but her bare word stood between her reputation and the world. Who would believe her? What woman would not deny such a crushing shame?

Her solemn oath to her father, the fathomless obligation under which they stood to Mr Courtney, the awful consequences to their benefactor which must follow a revelation of the truth, stared Lizzie in the face, like giant obstacles that forbid her even attempting to surmount them. What would she and her dead father have been but for the generosity extended to them through life by the planter’s hand?

He, a felon and a convict, and she, the daughter of a disgraced and dishonoured man, pointed at by the finger of scorn, shunned by the community of the virtuous and honest, a pariah and an outcast amongst men. No wonder her father had exacted her silence and obedience at the price of her salvation.

But would Maraquita be so untrue to all the instincts of honour and justice as to permit her adopted sister to continue to bear the shame which rightly belonged to herself? Liz remembered Hugh Norris’s advice to her to seek out the parents of the child, and beg them to clear her good name in the eyes of the world. The counsel was good. She only knew of Quita as the mother of the infant; but she could, at all events, secure an interview with her, and implore her to confess the truth to Mr and Mrs Courtney, and relieve her from so intolerable a burthen. Surely, thought Lizzie, if Quita knew what she was suffering—and likely to suffer—she could not have the heart to refuse her! Little Quita, whom she had held in her arms as a baby herself—who had learned to walk clinging to her hand—who had shared her girlish pleasures and sorrows with her, and told her all her secrets (except this last terrible one)—surely Quita would never blast her whole future in order to shield herself from the consequences of her sin!

Perhaps she did not know about Henri de Courcelles! Liz had loved this man too deeply to talk upon the subject; and as the engagement had never been publicly ratified, Quita might not be aware of the cruel separation her guilt had caused between them. If she knew that—if she were told that some one whom Liz loved as fondly as ever she could have loved the father of her child must be given up for ever, unless she spoke out—surely she would muster up courage to remove the heavy load she had laid upon her childhood’s friend.

As Lizzie arrived at this conclusion, she lifted up her head and breathed more freely. A light was breaking through her darkness. Perhaps, after all, she had condemned her adopted sister too hastily, and should have waited to see her before she passed judgment. The time had been too short, and events had been too hurried, to enable Maraquita to do her justice. Perhaps she was even ignorant of the blame cast upon her; and with this last charitable thought of her adopted sister, and a resolution to see her on the first opportunity, Lizzie sought her bed, and tried to compose herself to sleep.

Chapter III

Maraquita was lying in her silken hammock, swinging under the orange trees, and thinking over the events of the last few days. They had been important ones for her. The unexpected death of the Doctor had frightened her beyond measure, and more than ever did she feel that Henri de Courcelles owed it to her to make every exertion in his power to remove the proof of her shame from San Diego. Until that was done, she should have no rest. But she was very undecided about Sir Russell Johnstone. She didn’t wish to marry him—all her heart (such as it was) was set on Henri de Courcelles—but yet she wanted to be the wife of the Governor of San Diego, and certain hints from her mother had shown her it would be the best, and perhaps the only way, to get out of the scrape she was in. And if she refused Sir Russell Johnstone, it would be all the same; her parents would never consent to her marrying Monsieur de Courcelles.

Maraquita tossed to and fro as she thought over these things, and made the hammock swing as far as its cords would admit, till the orange blossoms and their glossy leaves swept across her face, and old Jessica, who was watching from below as usual, called out to her young mistress to take care. Quita was trying to argue the matter out with herself (as silly people will) so as to make the pieces of the puzzle fit each other and please everybody all round, being too blind or too selfish, meanwhile, to see that the only person she was really bent on pleasing was herself. She believed that in a very few days she would be called upon to decide the matter, for her mother had received a letter from the Governor to ask if her daughter had returned to the White House, but she was hardly prepared, as she lay there that morning, to see Sir Russell’s barouche, with its pair of English horses, and its outriders, dash up the drive, and stop before the portals of her home. She flushed so rosy at the sight, that Jessica observed her emotion.

‘Dat only de Governor, missy, come to see Massa Courtney. De Governor’s a fine gennelman, isn’t he, missy? Got beautiful coat and trousers and waistcoat on, and fine whiskers, and nice red face. Dat Government House a beautiful place, too, and dat carriage lovely. I’d like to see my missy in a carriage like dat, wid fine English horses, and coachman, and all.’

‘What nonsense you are talking, Jessica,’ said Quita querulously, as she turned her head away. ‘Papa’s carriage is quite good enough for me, and I don’t want any other.’

‘Ah, but some day my missy marry fine gennelman, and have everyting dat’s nice and beautiful. Not one of dese island fellers—overseers and such like,’ continued the negress contemptuously, ‘with half de blood black in their veins, but a real English gennelman, with plenty money, and all white blood.’

Maraquita reddened, and yawned, and turned pettishly away. She knew well enough to whom old Jessica was alluding, and she resented the hint as an impertinence.

Meanwhile Sir Russell Johnstone had rushed into the presence of Mr and Mrs Courtney.

‘Fancy, my dear sir,’ he was exclaiming, ‘that yesterday the police actually discovered a train of gunpowder laid right under the banqueting-room of Government House! Had it not been for their vigilance, at the next dinner-party I gave, we might all have been blown up—I, you, your wife, even your lovely daughter. It is too horrible a catastrophe to contemplate!’

‘Horrible indeed!’ echoed his host. ‘But are you sure that all is now safe? Has a thorough search been made?’

‘They tell me so, and that I need have no further alarm. But it has shaken my nerves, I can tell you that. And the delinquents are not caught either, though the native police are on the alert.’

‘How is that?’

‘They have escaped to the Alligator Swamp; though why they can’t pursue them there, beats me altogether.’

‘Ah, my dear Sir Russell,’ cried Mr Courtney, ‘you don’t know what the Alligator Swamp is like, or you would not be surprised. Even a negro will not venture to enter it, unless he is in fear of his life. It is a regular morass of green slime. It is impossible to tell at each step you take whether you will sink to the bottom of it or not; and it is infested with alligators or caymen of the largest and most ferocious breed. No living creatures but the caymen could breathe such an atmosphere; for the green swamp raises poisonous fungi, the vapours alone of which are almost certain death. These wretches who have plotted against your life cannot possibly escape punishment. If they do not fall into the hands of the police, they will certainly die, the victims of the pestilential atmosphere of the Alligator Swamp.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied the Governor, who was a short, stout man of ordinary appearance, and with rather a round and rosy face, ‘for I don’t consider my appointment worth the risk of being blown up. The island seems to me to be in a regular state of rebellion, and I don’t like it. If any more plots against my safety are discovered, I shall resign, and return to England. Her Majesty would be the last person to wish me to remain if there is the slightest fear of danger.’

‘Oh, there must not be—there shall not be!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney pathetically, as the pictures of a retreating Governor and a lost son-in-law floated before her mental vision. ‘These wretches must be brought to judgment, and executed. I would have them all hanged, if I were you, Sir Russell. The idea of their attempting such an outrage! Hanging would be too good for them.’

‘I am not sure if I can hang them; but, if so, you may be sure I will,’ rejoined the Governor. ‘Why, it makes a man quite nervous of going to his bed. It’s absurd—ridiculous—an insult to the British Government!’

‘It must be stamped out at any cost,’ said Mr Courtney; ‘and until it is—until things are more settled—if you would like to vacate Government House for a little while, and would accept the hospitality of Beauregard, Sir Russell, why, all I can say is, that everything I possess (humble as it may be) is at your service.’

‘But wouldn’t they say I had run away?’ replied the Governor. ‘I should like it above all things, but the papers have been rather spiteful about me of late, and I am afraid they would declare I had shown the white feather.’

‘But you must think of your own safety—that is the first consideration, surely!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney. ‘And you must think of others too, Sir Russell,—of those who care for you. My poor Maraquita will be in a fever of anxiety as soon as she hears this news.’

She had begun to be afraid that his own peril had somewhat displaced Maraquita from the Governor’s thoughts, and the idea that he might even be frightened out of San Diego without fulfilling his promise, filled her with alarm. She determined that if possible the engagement should be ratified at once, and then, if anything further happened to frighten Sir Russell back to England, he would be compelled to take his wife with him. Her ruse had the desired effect, and the mention of her daughter turned the Governor’s thoughts in another direction.

‘Ah, the beautiful Miss Courtney. Pray don’t think that I have forgotten her, in the exercise of my functions. To quell this native rebellion is the first duty I owe to my Queen and country, but my heart has been at the White House, my dear madam, all the time. How is your sweet daughter? Have you told her of my proposal? Is it possible I may have the great pleasure of seeing her?’

Mrs Courtney was not quite sure what to answer. She glanced at her husband, but he was standing with his back to her, and would make no sign, so she was thrown upon her own resources. Yet she was a woman, and when it is a matter of finesse, when do a woman’s resources fail?

‘She is better, dear Sir Russell—much better, almost well, in fact, but still weak, and unequal to any exertion. I did try to approach the subject of your most flattering proposal to her on her return home, but her agitation became so great, I was forced to relinquish it. You must not condemn her weakness. The prospect is a very dazzling one to a simple and innocent girl like our Maraquita.’

‘Do you mean to tell me, then, that she is favourably disposed towards me?’ inquired the Governor excitedly.

It is true that he was a Governor, and would perhaps have been somewhat surprised at any woman in San Diego refusing his suit. But at the same time he was fifty years of age, stout, bald, and past the age of romance, and it was enough to make any such man excited, to hear that a pure and lovely girl of eighteen was ready and eager to fly into his arms. He was quite aware of the value of the position he had to offer to the planter’s daughter, but he was conceited enough to be gulled into the belief that she could actually fall in love with him, more than with the advantages which a marriage with him would entail. His rosy face became rubicund with expectant pleasure, and he already saw himself with the most beautiful woman in San Diego folded in his embrace.

‘Favourably disposed!’ echoed Mrs Courtney. ‘My dear Sir Russell, that is not the word! Maraquita is overpowered by the preference you have shown towards her, only too shy to offer you her timid girlish love in return. She is so afraid she can give you nothing worth the having in exchange for your noble proposal to make her your wife.’

‘If she will give me herself, it is all I ask,’ returned the Governor. ‘And now, tell me, may I see her, and plead my cause in person?’

‘Oh, Sir Russell, one moment!’ cried Mrs Courtney, hurriedly. ‘Let Mr Courtney offer you some refreshment, whilst I prepare our sweet girl for your visit. You do not know how shy and sensitive she is. The very mention of marriage makes her blush. Let me go to my child, and when she is calm enough to receive you, I will return and tell you so.’

‘As you please, my dear madam, but don’t try my patience too far. Mr Courtney and I will have a cigar together, and talk over our plans for the future, whilst you are gone.’ And with a courtly bow to his hostess, Sir Russell let her leave the room.

Mrs Courtney hastened at once to Maraquita’s side. Hastened is not exactly the word for the ungraceful waddle which she used when she wished to expedite her footsteps, but she walked as fast as her unwieldy form would permit her, to the shady spot where Quita’s hammock swung under the orange trees, and having dismissed Jessica to the house, she entered at once upon her subject.

‘Quita, my darling, Sir Russell Johnstone has come for your answer to his proposal.’

She was clever in her own way, this half-educated, half-bred Spanish woman. She knew that if she gave Quita time to reflect, she would probably think of a way out of the dilemma in which she found herself, or consult her lover, and be persuaded perhaps to elope with him, and ruin her prospects for ever. She had read enough of her daughter’s mind on the first day she returned home, to see that all her inclinations were opposed to marrying Sir Russell Johnstone, and if she were persuaded to consent to it, it must be through finesse, or an appeal to her ambition. What Mrs Courtney wanted now, was to hurry Maraquita into accepting the Governor’s proposal, and make her so far commit herself that she could not back out of it afterwards. And she had good materials to work upon, for Maraquita was a youthful copy of her mother, as vain, and selfish, and indolent, and heartless, and as fond of luxuries and the good things of this life. But she was considerably startled at hearing she had to make up her mind so soon, and her large dark eyes—so like those of a deer—opened wide with consternation and alarm.

‘Oh, mother! Surely I need not give him an answer to-day. It is so very soon. I have had no time to think about it.’

‘No time to think about it!’ echoed Mrs Courtney; ‘why, the case is plain enough. What thinking does it require? Sir Russell offers to make you Lady Johnstone, and the mistress of Government House. He has an income of many thousands a year, and your father will settle a handsome dowry on you if you marry him. You will be the richest woman, and the woman of highest rank, in San Diego, and every soul in the island will exclaim at your good fortune. What more, in the name of Heaven, do you want, Maraquita?’

‘I am so afraid I sha’n’t love him,’ sighed the girl, with a last remnant of womanly feeling.

‘Very well,’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney, turning her back upon her daughter, and professing to be about to leave her, ‘I will go and tell Sir Russell, and at once! He is waiting your answer, and I can’t keep a Governor on tenterhooks for hours. If you refuse him, he says he is going back to England by the next steamer, and shall never return here, as he is sick of San Diego, and will only stay on condition you become his wife. But as you won’t try to love him, it is of no use.’

‘Stay, mother, stay!’ cried Quita hurriedly; ‘don’t go just yet. Wait one moment, and speak to me. Is it really true that Sir Russell will leave San Diego if I don’t marry him?’

‘Didn’t I say so, Maraquita. He declares that nothing shall make him stay; and if he returns, it will be with a Lady Johnstone to preside over Government House for him. He will marry an English girl, and you will have the mortification of seeing some woman, with half your beauty, enjoying all the advantages you have been fool enough to refuse. Quita, I have no patience with you.’

‘But, mamma—mamma, I haven’t refused him. I don’t mean to refuse him! If (as you say) I must make up my mind at once, I have made it up! I accept Sir Russell’s proposal, and you can go and tell him so.’

‘Oh, my darling girl!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney effusively, ‘I was sure you would see this grand prospect in its proper light at last. How proud and delighted your father will be to hear your decision. But you must give Sir Russell his answer in person, my love. You must let me bring him here, and tell him yourself that you will be his wife.’

‘But I am not fit to see any one. I am so untidy!’ cried Quita, jumping out of her hammock, and standing before her mother.

She was clothed in a long loose robe, of saffron colour, with hanging sleeves, that showed her white arms, and a belt that spanned her slender waist. Her dusky hair lay in a rippling mass upon her shoulders, and her fair face was flushed with excitement, and perhaps regret. She had never looked more lovely in her life, and Mrs Courtney regarded her with pardonable pride and admiration.

‘You are charming, my dear! I will not have you wait to make a single alteration in your dress; and Sir Russell is so impatient, that he will readily pardon the negligence of your morning attire. He knows you have been ill, and are disinclined for much exertion. Sit down in this chair, Quita, and I will bring him to you in another minute. Oh, my dear child,’ concluded Mrs Courtney, with a close embrace, ‘how thankful I am that all is about to end so happily for you! You have half killed me by your thoughtlessness and imprudence.’

There were genuine tears in her mother’s eyes as she pronounced the words, and Quita felt for the first time, perhaps, what a terrible risk she had run.

‘Never mind, mamma!’ she whispered, ‘it is over now, and he—he has promised me that I shall never hear anything more about it. Let us try and forget it ever occurred.’

‘Yes, my dearest girl, that is just what you must do. Blot out the past, like a hideous dream. It has been a terrible experience for you, and so long as you remained unmarried, I should always have trembled for your safety. But now—as the wife of the Governor, my dear child’s future is assured, and we will never mention the hateful subject again—not even to each other.’

‘No! and, mamma, you told me the other day that (excepting for certain reasons) you would have had some changes made on the plantation. Couldn’t you manage to have those changes made now. Not too suddenly, you know, so as to excite suspicion, but as if they were brought about in the natural course of events. Can’t you persuade papa,’ said Maraquita, hiding her face in her mother’s bosom, ‘to engage a—a—new overseer? It would be better for all of us.’

‘You are quite right, my darling,’ whispered Mrs Courtney back again, ‘and I am glad you have so much sense. Trust me, dear, that you shall not be annoyed in this matter. As soon as your marriage is settled, I will take you up on the hill range for change of air, and before you return we will have done what you suggest. I have a dozen good reasons to give your father for engaging some one else in that person’s place.’

‘Don’t be harsh with him,’ faltered Maraquita; ‘remember that—that—’

But this was a dangerous topic, on which Mrs Courtney did not choose to dilate.

‘I can remember nothing now, my dear, except that Sir Russell is waiting for your answer, and that I must go and fetch him to you. Now, be a woman, Maraquita! Think of all you owe to yourself, and the brilliant future that lies before you! I really believe I should go out of my mind with grief if anything happened to prevent it.’

Mrs Courtney walked back to the house as quickly as she was able, and Maraquita lay in the bamboo chair, with her eyes closed, and the unshed tears trembling like dewdrops on her long dark lashes. She had not to wait long! In another minute her mother had returned, in company with the Governor, and Quita had to disperse the vision of her handsome Spanish lover, with his graceful form and romantic bearing, and open her eyes upon a stout and pursy little Englishman, with a bald head and uninteresting features, and legs too short for his body.

But there was no mistaking the expression of his beaming face, and the girl saw at a glance that the matter had been concluded for her, and she was already in his eyes the future Lady Johnstone.

‘My dear Miss Courtney—may I not say my dear Maraquita?’ he commenced, ‘I cannot tell you how flattered I feel by your kind acceptance of my offer, nor how much I hope it will be the forerunner of our life-long happiness.’

He raised the hand she extended, to his lips as he spoke, and she felt compelled to reply, in a faltering voice,—

‘I hope it will—’

‘I won’t hear of any doubts about it,’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney triumphantly. ‘I feel sure, Sir Russell, that my sweet child’s happiness is safe in your hands; and as for yours—why, if the affection and duty of a simple and innocent girl can secure it, it will be as safe as her own. You must not forget, my dear sir, that you have chosen to honour a very young girl—almost a child—with your preference, and will, I know, make allowance for any faults that may arise from ignorance of the world and of society.’

‘I know that I have chosen the loveliest and sweetest girl in San Diego!’ cried the Governor enthusiastically, ‘and that it will be the aim of my life to surround her with every luxury and pleasure that I can afford; and as for her faults, I shall never see any to make allowance for.’

‘Oh, Sir Russell,’ replied Mrs Courtney, in the same strain, ‘you must not spoil my child! I know myself that her chief fault is that which will mend every day; still she is very young—there is no denying that—and will often need a little kindly counsel as to how she should act in her high position.’

‘She will only need to be herself, and to act on her own impulses, to make the most charming hostess that ever presided at the Government House. But we have not yet spoken of when the marriage is to take place, Mrs Courtney,—and I hope you will persuade Maraquita not to keep me waiting too long.’

‘You are very impatient,’ she replied, smiling, ‘but you must not forget that my dear child has been ill, and is still very weak and fragile. Still, if you make a point of it, I am sure neither Mr Courtney nor myself will stand in the way of a speedy wedding.’

‘But what will Miss Maraquita say?’ demanded the Governor, bending over her.

‘My mother can decide for me,’ she murmured faintly. ‘I have never disobeyed you yet, mamma, have I?’

‘Never! my dear, never! You have been the best and most dutiful of daughters, and deferred to your parents’ wishes in all things—’

But here the remembrance of certain late events put a sudden stop to Mrs Courtney’s eloquence, and she watched the crimson blood that rose to Quita’s cheek, in alarm. The girl was still weak: it was dangerous to provoke an emotion which she might find it impossible to quell.

‘But I think we have discussed this exciting topic sufficiently for to-day,’ she continued. ‘Maraquita is easily upset, and I should be sorry to see her thrown back again. Will you settle the knotty question of the wedding-day with me, Sir Russell, after you have finished talking to my daughter? I don’t fancy you will find there are many difficulties in the way—but we must think first of Maraquita’s strength, and how we can restore it for the important occasion.’

‘Certainly! that is the chief consideration,’ replied Sir Russell; ‘what do you propose to do about it?’

‘I was thinking of taking her up to the hill range for a week, to escape these enervating land breezes. I think a little change would do her more good than anything else.’

‘The very thing!’ exclaimed Sir Russell, ‘and you can have the use of the Government Bungalow, and all that is in it. When will you start? To-morrow? If so, I will send word at once to have everything in readiness for your reception. Don’t trouble yourself about taking your carriage and horses, mine will be there, and at your entire disposal. And I trust that after the rest of a day or two, Maraquita will permit me to join your party, and accompany her on her excursions in search of health. I have an Arab pony that carries a lady to perfection, and, with your leave, I will send it up for her use. What does my fiancée say? Does my proposal meet with her approval?’

‘She would be a very ungrateful girl, and very hard to please, if it did not,’ said her mother, answering for her; and then perceiving that Quita’s self-command was almost at an end, and that she was on the point of breaking down, she added playfully,—

‘And now I am going to be hard-hearted and carry you off, Sir Russell, for my poor child is overcome with all this excitement, and unable to bear any more at present. Please be good, and return with me to the White House; and if you will call upon us again this evening, I have no doubt she will be calmer, and better able to thank you for all your kind offers on her behalf.’

The Governor rose at once (for he was a gentleman, although he was ugly and ill-formed), and took his leave. As he did so, he stooped down and kissed Maraquita on the cheek. It was not an out-of-the-way thing for a newly-accepted lover to do, but the salute, quietly as it was given, seemed to sting her. She did not resent it whilst her mother and Sir Russell Johnstone were in sight, but as soon as the doors of the White House had closed upon them, she hid her face in her hands, and burst into a flood of tears.

Chapter IV

She was still weeping quietly, when the branches of the orange tree which formed a leafy bower around her, were parted, and a voice exclaimed, with passionate intensity,—

‘Maraquita!’

The girl sprang to her feet without any effort to conceal her tears. Henri de Courcelles stood beside her.

‘Oh, go!’ she implored, ‘go at once. You don’t know the risk you are running. My mother suspects us, and she may be back in another moment. For my sake, Henri, go.’

‘Not unless you will tell me the cause of your grief. Is it because this burden is too heavy for you? If so, come with me, and let us share it, and fight the world together.’

‘I cannot talk with you about it now, Henri,’ replied Maraquita, with a look of alarm; ‘it is impossible. You must leave me. I see Jessica coming from the house.’

‘Then where will you meet me, for I shall not rest until you have satisfied my curiosity; besides, I have important news for you about—it.’

This intelligence made Quita change her mind. She was intensely anxious to have the assurance of her own complete safety, and she could be cunning enough where her inclinations were concerned.

‘Have you done—what I asked you?’ she gasped.

‘I have made everything right, but I cannot explain the matter to you in a moment, nor where there is any fear of our being overheard.’

‘Wait for me in the oleander thicket, then,’ cried Maraquita. ‘I will be there in five minutes.’

Henri de Courcelles nodded acquiescence, and disappeared as old Jessica came up to her young mistress.

‘Missus Courtney send me to ask if my missy like to have someting to eat and drink now; and will missy come back to de house, or will she have it brought out here under de trees?’ asked the negress.

‘Neither, Jessica. Tell mamma I am not hungry or thirsty, only very sleepy, and I want to be left alone for an hour or two. I can call you when I wake.’

‘If missy sleepy, better come and sleep in house,’ urged Jessica. ‘So many flies and ’skeeters about here.’

‘I wish you would let me do as I like, Jessica,’ said Quita, ‘and keep your suggestions to yourself.’

‘I’se very sorry, missy. I won’t say any more, only stop here and keep off de flies and tings from your face.’

‘You’re enough to drive a saint mad!’ cried Maraquita, stamping her foot. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted to be left alone? What is it to you if I like flies and mosquitoes buzzing about me? Go back to the house, and don’t come near me again till I give you leave.’

The old nurse obeyed without a murmur; but she did murmur, for all that. The coloured people are very secretive, and can assume an appearance of complete innocence, all the time they are cognisant of their employer’s most important secrets.

‘Ah! my poor little missy,’ muttered Jessica to herself, as she shambled on her bare flat feet towards the house, ‘you think ole black nurse blind, but she see too well. She know all about de baby at Doctor’s bungalow, and who’s de fader and moder of it, as well as you. And she will see her little missy revenged, before many moons is ober her head, into de bargain. Cuss dat oberseer!’

Meanwhile Maraquita, having watched Jessica into the house, through the branches of the orange tree, stole out the opposite side, and, keeping well out of view of the windows, took her way towards the oleander thicket, which lay between her home and De Courcelles’ bungalow. It was a wild patch of flowering shrubs, densely planted together, and forming a sufficient ambush to conceal any number of persons from the public gaze. There was a wooden bench in one part of it, where Maraquita and De Courcelles had often held their moonlight trysts together; and there she found him eager to tell his news, and claim his reward.

Quita sunk down upon the bench, and trembled. She was not only weak from her recent illness, but she dreaded the scene which might follow the impending revelation.

‘You are far from well yet, my Quita,’ said Henri de Courcelles, as he folded his arms about her trembling form; ‘but I have something to tell you which will set your mind at rest.’

‘Tell it to me quickly, then,’ rejoined Maraquita. ‘Have you sent it out of the island? Are you sure I shall never hear of it again?’

‘No, I cannot quite promise you that,’ replied De Courcelles, with an intuitive disgust (even in the midst of his passion) for her undisguised selfishness. ‘It has never been in my hands, so it was impossible I could form any plans for it. But circumstances have fallen out so fortunately, that I don’t see any chance of suspicion falling upon you.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand you,’ said Quita pettishly. ‘If it is to remain in San Diego, the secret may come out any day, and my only safety will be in leaving the island.’

‘Wait a moment, dearest, and listen to me. It seems that the day before the Doctor’s death, he brought the child home to his bungalow, where it now is—’

‘With Lizzie? In the bungalow?’ cried Quita, turning ashy pale. ‘Oh, my God! then all is over, and I am lost!’

‘Hush! hush! Maraquita. Nothing of the sort. Liz refuses to say a word upon the subject. I have questioned her narrowly; so has your father; and all she will answer is that before his death Dr Fellows extracted a solemn oath from her never to disclose anything concerning the child, and that her lips are sealed.’

‘Oh, but it will come out; it is sure to come out some day!’ exclaimed Quita, weeping, as she wrung her hands in abject fear. ‘You have ruined me, Henri! You have destroyed all my future prospects! I shall be branded for ever as a dishonest woman!’

‘But it is impossible! All the plantation—I may say all San Diego—already believes the child to be Lizzie’s own.’

Maraquita stared at him in astonishment.

‘They believe that! But what does Lizzie say?’

‘She can say nothing! Her lips are sealed by her oath!’

‘Some day the shame may prove too hard to bear, and they will be forced open.’

‘It will be too late then to assert her innocence. The world of San Diego is quite convinced by this time that she is the mother of the infant, and her attempts to cast the blame on you will only appear to be an impudent subterfuge. She has no proof—or witness—to bring forward in confirmation of the truth.’

‘Poor Lizzie,’ said Quita, in a low voice, visions of past kindnesses on the part of her adopted sister, and of a faithful life-long affection, floated before her mind, and made her tremble. Something—was it the last effort made by her Good Angel in her behalf—seemed to rise within her heart, and prompt her to cry out that it must not be, that she could not be guilty of this dreadful wrong, and let her just burthen lie on the shoulders of an innocent woman. But then she remembered the shame and the disgrace that would ensue to her, and how her parents would despise and reproach her, and Sir Russell Johnstone would refuse to make her his wife, and moral cowardice made her shiver and remain silent.

‘Ay! poor Lizzie,’ echoed De Courcelles. ‘I am really sorry for the girl; but what can be done? It is a choice between two evils. Either she must be sacrificed, or my peerless Maraquita. Do you suppose I could hesitate between them? There is one thing to be said, however. Lizzie is not in your position. She will not feel the disgrace so keenly as you would. And, before long, Maraquita, we may be able to relieve her of her burthen.’

Maraquita did not like the last allusion.

‘I don’t see how,’ she answered lamely.

‘Have you forgotten, then, what you promised, when you asked me to assist you to escape the inevitable blame of the consequences of our mutual love,—that, if your parents refused to sanction our marriage, you would elope with me to Santa Lucia, and not return until we were man and wife in the eyes of the law, as we are now in the eyes of Heaven?’

‘But you have not done as I asked you,’ she replied evasively. ‘I don’t see that you have done anything. It is still here, closer at hand even than I thought it was, and (whatever you may say) liable at any moment to be brought home to my door. And there is another danger, Henri. Mamma has discovered our secret—how, I am unable to say, but she has told me so pretty plainly, and also that she will keep it only on one condition—’

‘And that is—’

‘That I accept the proposals of Sir Russell Johnstone.’

‘You shall not!’ cried her lover indignantly. ‘I will not stand by quietly and see the woman I consider my wife handed over to that bald-headed old Governor. I will go straight up to Mr Courtney sooner, and confess the truth, and ask his pardon for what I have done. Surely he would never wish you to marry another man, if he knew what has taken place between us. And if he persists in dragging you to the altar, I will tear you from your bridegroom’s arms, and stab you to the heart, before he shall claim what is mine.’

Quita’s star-like eyes dilated with terror. She knew something of what the Spanish and Creole blood is capable of doing when roused, and foresaw bloodshed—perhaps murder—if Henri de Courcelles did not have his own way. And yet, to give up the brilliant prospect before her, in order to become an overseer’s wife, and one whose maiden reputation would be lightly spoken of, seemed to be impossible. Why had she ever entangled her feet in a net which threatened to drag her down to a life of obloquy and shame? To what friend could she turn in her great need? Suddenly the idea flashed across her mind that she would confess everything to her mother. Mrs Courtney already knew (or had guessed) the truth, and counselled her daughter on the best mode of escaping its results. She was very anxious to see Maraquita Lady Johnstone. If making a clean breast of her secret brought a certain amount of recrimination on her head, it would at the same time secure her an ally with whom to fight this terrible battle for a name and a position in life. For the first time hope and comfort seemed to enter her breast. If her mother were on her side, she felt she could defy Henri de Courcelles, and Liz Fellows, and the world. All their assertions would be taken as impudent lies, and only secure their own immediate banishment from Beauregard. But, meanwhile, her lover must be quieted and conciliated, and Maraquita knew how to do it full well. She had scarcely conceived the notion how to act in the future, before her white arms were wreathed about his neck.

‘Henri,’ she cried, with her lips to his, ‘don’t speak to me like that! Don’t think of such a thing, for Heaven’s sake! Do you imagine that I would ever consent to be placed in such a position, or that any amount of tyranny would make me marry a man against my will? Let the worst come to the worst, dear; let mamma tell my father of our intrigue; it will only result in your having to leave San Diego. Whether I shall be able to go too, remains to be proved. I am under age, you know, and if papa chooses to lock me up, or send me to England, I suppose he can. But even that will be better than being forced to marry a man I don’t love; and you know that I shall always remember you, dearest, and think of the time that is past, as the happiest portion of my life.’

Henri de Courcelles looked sullen and suspicious. The clasping arms were very sweet, and the ripe lips very tempting, but there was a false ring in Quita’s speech, which made itself apparent to his senses, although his judgment could not detect it. There was no fault to be found with her words, yet they inspired him with distrust, and he felt certain that she was betraying whilst she kissed him.

‘I don’t know what to think of you, Maraquita,’ he said presently. ‘I suppose you love me, in your way, but you seem very ready to fall in with your parents’ plans to get rid of me.’

‘But what could I do, Henri, if my father was determined to separate us? Am I not completely in his power? Our only chance appears to me to lie in secrecy, and yet you speak as if you would disclose the affair to all San Diego.’

‘And if I hold my tongue and remain quiet, what then? You will marry Sir Russell Johnstone before my very eyes, and I shall have to grin and bear it.’

‘We are the most unfortunate people in the world’, sighed Maraquita, with mock sentimentality.

‘You mean that I am the most unfortunate man in the world, ever to have set my heart on a girl who doesn’t care two straws for me. I can see through you now, Maraquita. You were willing enough to commit the sin, but you are too great a coward to face the consequences of it. You have deceived and disobeyed your parents over and over again, when it suited your pleasure to do so, but when it comes to a question of marrying the man you profess to love, you take refuge behind the transparent screen of filial duty and affection. I was good enough for your lover, it appears, but I am not good enough to be your husband. You have higher views in prospect for yourself, and I may go anywhere,—be kicked out of my appointment, and cast homeless on San Diego—what does it signify to you, so long as you become Lady Johnstone, and have plenty to eat and drink, and a spotless reputation. But it shall not be! You have made yourself mine, and I refuse to give you up. If you attempt to become the wife of any other man, whether in deference to your parents’ wishes, or your own, I will blast your name from north to south, till the commonest fellow on the island would refuse to give you his. Every black in San Diego shall know what you are, a light love, a false woman, and a heartless mother.’

‘You shall not—you dare not!’ gasped Maraquita, now thoroughly frightened.

‘You shall see what I can dare!’ he exclaimed wildly. ‘For I will take your life and my own, sooner than give you up to another.’

And with that Henri de Courcelles walked away, and left her sitting there by herself. As soon as she was convinced he was not coming back again, Quita rose, and with trembling steps walked slowly back to the White House. He had succeeded in completely alarming her. She had never seen him like this before, and he was terrible in his anger. His black eyes had gleamed on her like polished steel, and his hand had involuntarily sought his side, as though ready to grasp an invisible stiletto. Quita felt certain he would be capable of any violence, if not restrained, and fear lent her boldness. She would secure one friend at least in her extremity, and whatever it cost her she would confide her trouble to her mother. She found Mrs Courtney alone in her own room, lying on a sofa, with bare feet, and the last novel that had reached San Diego in her hand. But as she saw Maraquita enter the chamber, she raised herself to a sitting position.

‘My dearest child! what is the matter? You are looking quite ill again.’

‘Oh, mamma, mamma,’ cried Quita, sinking at her mother’s feet, ‘I am so unhappy!’

And then, in a broken voice, and with her face still hidden, she told the story of her disgrace, and the danger which appeared to threaten her.

Mrs Courtney listened in silence. She had suspected the cause of her daughter’s illness, and the author of her ruin, but she was hardly prepared to hear there was a living witness to her shame domiciled so close to Beauregard. Her naturally sallow complexion turned almost livid with horror, and her unwieldy frame shook with agitation. And when the girl had finished her miserable recital, all her mother could utter was,—

‘Oh, Maraquita, Maraquita, I couldn’t have believed it of you!’

‘Mother, don’t speak to me like that! I know I have been very wicked, but I have no friend but you, and if you desert me, I shall be lost. Oh, mother, save me this once, and I will do everything you ask me in the future. You want me to became Lady Johnstone, don’t you? But you must think of some means of stopping Henri’s tongue, or I never shall be. I did not think he would be so spiteful and revengeful! He says he will stab me at the very altar.’

‘That is all talk, my dear! he will do no such thing! He shall be sent out of Beauregard before a week is over his head; and if he dares to assail your character, your father shall have him punished for it. But listen to me, Quita. There is only one way to fight this scandal, and that is to deny everything. Now, let me understand you plainly. Are you sure that no one but Dr Fellows and his daughter knew the secret of this birth?’

‘Quite sure, mamma! The Doctor told me so over and over again; and I don’t think Lizzie knows whose baby it is—and if she does, she has taken an oath never to reveal it—and Lizzie will keep her oath!’ said Maraquita, with complete faith in the fidelity of her friend.

‘There was no other person in the house at the time?’

‘No one, mamma.’

‘Then your course is plain. Whoever dares to mention this story to you, or at whatever time it may crop up against you, deny it entirely. Say you have never heard of such a thing before, and you are entirely ignorant how it could have originated. I—as your mother—will corroborate your statement, and we will uphold our assertion before the world. Lizzie Fellows is really the only witness that can come against you, and she will not break her promise, I am sure of that.

‘As for that villain De Courcelles, your father shall give him a summary dismissal, and anything he may say in his rage will be taken for revenge. He can prove nothing. He has only his bare word to give for it, and who would believe him against your own parents? Meanwhile, dearest, the sooner your marriage takes place the better, and then you will feel safe. But whatever you do, Maraquita, never acknowledge your shame again, even to De Courcelles. You never know who may overhear it. Try to believe it has never been, and then you will act as though it had never been. As for marrying your father’s overseer, it is out of the question, and like his presumption to dream of it. As if he hadn’t done you harm enough already, without wishing to hamper you for life! It’s like the unreasonable selfishness of men. But you may make your mind easy, my dear, your mother will save you.’

‘Oh, mamma, how I wish I could go away somewhere, and never see nor hear anything of him again!’ sobbed Maraquita.

‘So you shall, Quita, if you will only have a little patience. But cease crying now, my child, or you will make yourself ill. Lie down on my couch, and try to go to sleep. I won’t let you leave the house again until Monsieur de Courcelles has quitted the plantation.’

And with a kiss of forgiveness, Mrs Courtney left her frail daughter to repose.

Chapter V

The next morning Liz was walking up the avenue of orange trees that led to the White House, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her brow wrinkled with perplexity. After many hours of painful deliberation, she had come to the conclusion to take the advice of Captain Norris, and beg Maraquita to relieve her of the intolerable burden of shame she bore for her sake; but how to accuse her adopted sister of her sin, troubled her beyond measure. She felt so deeply for her youth and betrayed innocence. Such a well of divine compassion for the injured girl was mingled with her own horror of the deed, that she scarcely knew whether she should feel most inclined to commiserate with, or to blame her. Liz pictured Quita to herself writhing on the ground for very shame at the discovery of her weakness, bright-eyed, dusky-haired Maraquita, who had always seemed so much to be envied and admired, prostrate in her humiliation, and her generous heart bled in anticipation of her sister’s pain. She conned over and over again the words in which she would break the truth to her, trying to make them as tender and little accusing as she could. She would endeavour (she thought) to first gain Quita’s confidence, and then to make her understand that, if she would only do what was just, in confessing the truth to her parents, Liz would be her friend, and the friend of her little daughter, to their lives’ end. But what she was about to ask of Quita was a very serious thing, and she doubted if the girl’s strength of mind would carry her through it.

She did not ring for admittance when she reached the White House. She had been accustomed to enter and leave it as she chose, and experienced no difficulty in finding her way at once to the chamber where Maraquita spent most of her morning hours.

This was an apartment adjoining her bedroom, and furnished more with a view to the repose which is so essential in the torrid climate of the West Indies, than to the pursuit of any active work. Its French windows, opening on the garden, were shaded by green jalousies, through which the luxuriant creepers thrust their tendrils and their leaves; the marble floor was strewn with plaited mats of various coloured straws; the furniture consisted of a couple of bamboo lounges and a marble table, on which stood a silver tray bearing fruit and cooling drinks. The only ornaments it contained were a large mirror and a couple of handsome vases filled with roses. Everything about the room was conducive to coolness and repose; and Maraquita, attired in white muslin, with a palm leaf in her hand, and stretched full length on one of the couches, with her eyes half closed, was a personification of the goddess of Sleep or Indolence, or perhaps both.

She started, and coloured slightly as Liz slipped into the room through the verandah. Her last conversation with Henri de Courcelles was in her mind. She had been thinking of it as Liz entered, and a secret intuition made her feel that her adopted sister would allude to the subject. A craven fear took possession of her, and made her heart beat to suffocation; but only for a moment. The next she had remembered her mother’s caution and promised championship, and had resolved to carry out her advice (if necessary) to the very letter. As she sank back upon her couch, Lizzie advanced towards her with affectionate solicitude.

‘Have I startled you, Quita? I hope not. It seems so long since we met; and so much has happened since then, that I felt I must come up and see you to-day. How are you, dear? Quite strong again?’

As she sat down by the girl’s side, and laid her hand tenderly upon her arm, Quita turned pettishly away.

‘That is rather a silly question for a lady doctor to ask me, Lizzie. How can I be quite strong again after such a nasty attack of fever? I am as weak as I can well be, and mamma is going to take me up to the hill range to-morrow or next day for change of air.’

‘I am glad of that, dear. It will be the best thing for you, for you must have suffered much, my poor Quita, I am sure, both in mind and body.’

Quita did not like this thrust, but she parried it bravely.

‘Well, I did suffer with the fever, as you know, and the only wonder is that it didn’t kill me, as it has done so many of the coolies. It was your poor father who saved my life. And then that he should go himself! I have felt that terribly, Liz. I was very fond of him. He was like a second father to me, and his sudden death has cut us all up, as well as you.’

There were tears in Maraquita’s voice as she spoke, which brought the kindred drops welling up to Lizzie’s eyes, and for a few moments the girls wept together as for a common loss.

‘Oh, Quita,’ said Liz, as soon as she could speak calmly again, ‘I know that you and your father and mother have felt for me in my trouble, for, kind as you have been to us, you can never realise the depth of it. My father was my world. He stood between me and every anxiety, and now that he is gone, I feel as if I stood alone, the centre of a storm of suspicion, and accusation, and reproach.’

Maraquita paled under this allusion, but she felt obliged to say,—

‘What do you mean?’

‘Can you ask me, Quita?’ exclaimed Liz suddenly. ‘Is it possible that the rumours that are afloat concerning me have failed to reach your ears? Mr Courtney told me that he had heard them. Surely he repeated them to you.’

‘No, papa has told me nothing, and I don’t know what rumours you allude to,’ replied Quita; but had the room not been darkened to shut out the morning heat, Lizzie must have seen the crimson blood that rushed to her face with fear of what was coming.

‘Then I must tell you,’ said Lizzie, drawing nearer to the couch, while she looked cautiously about the room to be sure that no one was within hearing. ‘Indeed I came up here this morning expressly to tell you, for the burden of secrecy and shame is more than I can bear.’

Whilst Lizzie beat about the bush, as though afraid to mention the forbidden topic, Quita had felt timid and constrained, but now that she seemed prepared to speak out, the defiance that is born of fear entered the younger girl’s breast, and emboldened her to say or do anything in the defence of her honour.

‘What secrecy? What shame? What have you been doing, Lizzie?’ she exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise. ‘You talk in riddles to me to-day.’

‘Ah, you have heard nothing, Quita. I can see that. You do not know the terrible duty that has been laid upon me. But turn your face this way, dear, and let me whisper to you. Don’t mind what I may say, Quita. Remember that I am your sister, who has known you from a baby, and that I sympathise with and feel for you in any trouble or sorrow you may have to endure. You remember the night you came to our bungalow?’

‘I remember the night I was told I went there, Liz; but I was half delirious with the fever, and can vouch for nothing myself.’

‘I can well understand that you were half crazy with fear and pain, dearest, but it was not the fever that made you so.’

‘The Doctor said it was the fever,’ argued Maraquita, with wide-open, innocent eyes. ‘He told papa and mamma so.’

‘I know he did, for your sake, and that they believed it. He extracted a solemn oath from me at the same time, never to reveal what I might see or hear that night. And I never have revealed it, Quita, and I never will. It shall lie hidden in my heart until my death. Only you must help me to bear it, or I shall die.’

Lizzie was sobbing now, though very quietly, behind the shelter of her hands, whilst Maraquita lay on the couch silent but pondering what she would say.

‘Speak to me,’ cried Lizzie presently. ‘Say something, for God’s sake, and put me out of my pain.’

‘What am I to say?’ replied Maraquita. ‘You frighten me when you talk like that. Has anything terrible happened since your poor father’s death, and how can I help you out of it?’

‘I will tell you what has happened,’ said Lizzie presently. ‘Mammy Lila is dead, and the child is with me, and every one is talking about it, and saying it is mine. What am I to do, Quita—what am I to do? I cannot speak, because my lips are closed by the oath my father made me take; and if I could speak, do you think I would betray my dearest friend? And can I send it from me—the poor, helpless, tender little creature who has no one to look after it and love it but myself?’

‘But whose child is it?’ inquired Maraquita, with her dark eyes fixed full on those of her adopted sister.

Lizzie regarded her for a moment in silent consternation. Was it possible that Quita was in ignorance of her child’s birth, and had her late father managed so skilfully as to keep her unaware of what had happened? Such things had been. But the next minute Liz had rejected the idea with scorn. At any rate Maraquita must have known what lay before her when she found her way to the Doctor’s bungalow, and if she affected ignorance now, it was only because she was unaware that Lizzie knew the whole truth.

‘Oh, Maraquita,’ she exclaimed, ‘don’t be afraid of confessing it to me, for I know everything! My father was obliged to confide in me. He could not have managed without my assistance. But my oath seals my lips to all the world but you. But is it right to keep such a secret from your father and mother, especially when doing so involves the ruin of any other woman? You don’t know what the charge of that little infant has brought upon me? Even Mr Courtney suspects my honesty. And as for Monsieur de Courcelles—’

‘What has Monsieur de Courcelles to do with it?’ cried Quita hastily.

Lizzie coloured. She had never spoken of her relations with Henri de Courcelles to Quita before, but this was no time to let feeling get the better of justice.

‘He has everything to do with me,’ she answered, in a low tone. ‘Quita, I have never told you before, that I am engaged to be married to Monsieur de Courcelles.’

‘You—engaged to be married—to Henri? Oh, it is not true! You are deceiving me!’ exclaimed Quita, as she sprang to a sitting position, and turned a face of ashy pallor to her companion.

But Lizzie suspected no more than she saw. She only thought that Quita was astonished that she should have been kept in the dark with regard to so important a subject, and hastened to defend her own conduct.

‘Indeed, it is true! I daresay you are surprised that I should not have told you, Quita (for I have told you almost everything), but I have felt so deeply about it, that I could not speak; and our engagement has never been made public, though it has lasted over a year.’

‘You—engaged to Henri de Courcelles!’ repeated Quita incredulously.

‘Yes! Although he has broken it off, of his own accord, and left me, I cannot feel that I am free from him. For I love him, Quita. I love him with my whole heart and soul. I did not think it was in me to love any creature as I love him. And since we have parted, I have been unable to sleep, or eat, or drink, for longing after him,—longing, above all things, to clear my character in his eyes, even though I never saw him afterwards. Oh, Quita, I must, I must do this! To live on letting him think me false and frail, will kill me! If you will not help me out of this awful dilemma, my death will be on your head.’

But the news she had just heard had hardened Maraquita’s heart. All the love she was capable of feeling had been given to De Courcelles, and if he and Lizzie had combined to deceive her, why they might suffer for it. That was all she thought of, as she clenched her teeth upon her upper lip, to prevent her betraying her emotion.

‘Maraquita! won’t you save my love to me?’ wailed Lizzie. ‘All I ask is to clear my name in the eyes of Henri de Courcelles, and then the rest of the world may think and say what they choose.’

‘I don’t in the least understand what you are driving at,’ replied Maraquita. ‘What can I do to make up your quarrel? Monsieur de Courcelles and you are both old enough to look after yourselves. If he won’t believe you, he is not likely to believe me.’

‘But I cannot speak—my lips are sealed,’ cried Lizzie wildly; ‘and he will not accept my word, instead of an explanation. Don’t you understand me, Quita? Henri has heard this scandalous report about the child, and believes it to be mine. He demands the name of the mother, and no one but you can satisfy him. Oh, Quita, release me from this awful vow, that threatens to ruin my character and blast my whole life! Think, dear—is it fair that I should lose everything I love and value most, because of your fault? Be brave and generous enough to share the blame with me, and I promise you before God that it shall never go any further.’

Maraquita sat straight up on her couch, and stared at her adopted sister.

‘What do you want me to do? Speak plainly, for I do not comprehend your meaning.’

‘I want you to tell your parents what you have done. They will pity, and love, and forgive you, Quita, as I do. They will feel it was your youth and ignorance that were at fault, and not your heart; and you will feel happier, my poor sister, when your mother has shared your secret, and forgiven it. I want you to tell Mr and Mrs Courtney that the child in my bungalow is yours.’

‘What!’ cried Quita shrilly. ‘You want me to tell a lie in order to screen yourself?’

‘A lie!’ repeated Lizzie. ‘You know it is not a lie; you know when you came to us that night that you were delivered of a daughter, and that my poor father took charge of it for you. Oh, Quita, if you could see her,—her little waxen hands and feet, her wistful dark eyes, so like your own, and her tiny mouth, which just begins to smile, your mother’s heart would yearn to claim her for your own!’

For one moment Quita trembled at the picture Liz had conjured up, but the next, fear of ruining her own prospects crushed the softer feeling in her heart.

‘I deny it!’ she exclaimed loudly. ‘I deny every word you have uttered. You are either mad, or you mistake me for some other woman. How dare you insinuate that I have ever had a child?’

‘You deny it!’ echoed Lizzie, rising to her feet. ‘You can actually look me in the face, and deny it, Quita?’

‘Most emphatically I do, and resent the insult you have laid upon me. I know nothing about the child which is in your bungalow. It may be yours, or any other woman’s, but it certainly is not mine; and if my parents heard you had accused me of such a dishonour, they would turn you from their doors!’

‘What is all this about?’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney, as she entered the room. ‘Lizzie, you ought to know better than to let Maraquita excite herself with talking, when she has scarcely recovered from her late illness. She will have a relapse, if we do not take care.’

She had heard from Jessica that the Doctor’s daughter had entered the house, and, fearful of what she might have come to say, had hastened to the rescue of her daughter. Lizzie stood before her, silent and confused, but Quita appealed to her mother’s protection at once.

‘Mamma, just hear what Lizzie has told me. She says there is a baby at her bungalow which was left in the charge of her father, and she accuses me of being the mother of it, and wants me to tell a lie to you and papa, in order to screen herself from suspicion.’

‘Lizzie accuses you of being a mother!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney, with well-acted surprise. ‘Oh, it is impossible! Quita, you are dreaming!’

‘Tell mamma if I am dreaming, Lizzie! Repeat to her what you said just now.’

‘I shall do no such thing, Quita! I said what I did to you in confidence, and I refuse to repeat it to any one.’

‘Because you know how mamma would resent such a foul calumny. Oh, mamma,’ continued Quita to her mother, ‘what have I ever done to be accused of such a dreadful thing? What would Sir Russell say if he heard of it?’

‘I cannot believe my ears,’ said Mrs Courtney. ‘Do I hear aright, Lizzie, that you have dared to link my daughter’s name with such a shameful story? What induced you to do it? Speak! I must have an answer.’

‘I cannot speak, Mrs Courtney; I have nothing to say.’

‘Because you know yourself to be guilty. Don’t imagine that we have not heard the scandal that is abroad concerning you. But I little thought you would have the audacity to try and throw the blame upon my poor Maraquita, she who has been like a sister to you.’

‘I have never denied the benefits which I and my poor father have received from your family, Mrs Courtney, nor been ungrateful for them.’

‘And what do you call your conduct of this morning, then? You have deceived us all, Lizzie,—Mr Courtney, myself, and your poor father. We thought you a pure and good girl, or you never would have been allowed to associate with my daughter.’

‘I am pure,’ interposed Lizzie, with the indignant tears standing on her hot cheeks. ‘I have done nothing to make you regret the favours you have shown me.’

‘Oh, don’t speak to me like that, Lizzie, when you know that you are the mother of a child which you dare not own.’

‘I am not! I am NOT!’ cried the girl, half choked with her emotion and sense of impotency to resent the charge made against her.

‘And I say you are,’ continued Mrs Courtney, ‘and all San Diego says it with me. And, not content with degrading yourself, you would try to degrade my daughter also. Shame upon you! Is this your gratitude? You who, but for our bounty would have been pointed at all your days as the daughter of a felon, who have now lowered yourself beyond the ordinary level of your sex.’

‘Oh, Mrs Courtney, say what you like to me, but spare the memory of my dead father!’ cried Lizzie, through her sobs.

‘If I have not spared it, you have only yourself, and your own conduct, to blame. I have been very good to you hitherto, Lizzie, but I can be so no longer. You have raised a barrier between us with your own hand. For the sake of his old friendship for your father, Mr Courtney wishes you to remain on the plantation, but you are no fit companion for Maraquita, and from this day you must consider the doors of the White House are closed against you.’

‘You will not find me attempt to alter your decision, Mrs Courtney. I came up here this morning to ask Maraquita to do me a simple act of justice, but she has refused it, and I can no longer look upon her as my sister and my friend, nor shall I have any wish to seek her society.’

‘Insolent!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney. ‘Why, under no circumstances would you be permitted to do so. Maraquita is engaged to be married to the Governor of the island, Sir Russell Johnstone. In a few weeks she will be reigning at Government House, and will receive no lady there who cannot vouch for the possession of an unspotted reputation. So now perhaps you will see the harm you have done yourself by your impudent attempt to forge off your own error upon her.’

‘It would have made no difference to my behaviour, madam, if Maraquita had already been the Governor’s wife. The blameless burden laid upon me still remains, and she will not lift it by the raising of her little finger. I suppose it is my fate to suffer and be silent. But I think the time will come when Quita will be sorry she had not more pity for me to-day.’

‘Mamma, mamma,’ cried Quita hysterically, ‘tell her to go! I can bear no more of her reproaches. It is wicked of her to speak like that. You know that I have done nothing; but if such a story were to come to Sir Russell’s ears, it might ruin me for ever.’

‘It shall not come to his ears!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney angrily; ‘and if you attempt to repeat it, Elizabeth Fellows, I will have your name, and your dead father’s name, branded from one end of San Diego to the other until not a soul in the island shall speak to you. See if I do not.’

‘You will never have the opportunity to carry out your cruel threat, madam. I have told your daughter, and I tell you, that my vow of secrecy to my beloved father is sacred, and nothing shall make me break it. From this hour, I shall never mention the subject to any living creature again.’

And with those words Liz turned on her heel and walked out of the White House. As she disappeared, Maraquita threw herself into her mother’s arms in a burst of tears.

‘Oh, I am lost—I am lost!’ she cried, trembling with fear. ‘We have made her angry, and she may go and tell the story everywhere, from revenge. How I wish I had never seen De Courcelles. It was wicked of him to take advantage of me like that. And all the time he was engaged to be married to Lizzie. Oh, mother, I hate him—I hate him! I wish that he was dead!’

It is the proof of an ephemeral and fancied passion that directly misfortune or peril comes upon it, it turns to reproaching and dislike. There is little need to say that Maraquita’s love for Henri de Courcelles was founded on a basis of self-esteem. Had it been otherwise, their mutual error would have made her cling all the closer to him as her one haven of safety.

‘If he is engaged to her, my dear,’ replied Mrs Courtney, with a view to consolation, ‘so much the better. They are a very suitable pair, and their marriage would rid you of a troublesome suitor. I have heard something of it before, but subsequent events made me think I was mistaken. But I don’t like Monsieur de Courcelles. I consider him a dangerous enemy, and should be glad to know that he had settled down in life.’

‘But you promised me that papa should send him away from Beauregard,’ said Quita fearfully.

‘And so he shall, my love, as soon as ever we are on the hill range. You may rest assured of that. Only we have no power to send him out of San Diego, and he may prove troublesome to us yet. However, I have my own story to tell papa, and it is one that will provide against any emergency. But the first thing to be done, Quita, is to get you away; and the next, to make you Lady Johnstone. Then we shall be perfectly safe.’

‘You will take care that no one else comes in to see me to-day,’ said Quita languidly, ‘for I feel quite worn out by the annoyance I have undergone?’

‘Certainly, my dearest girl. Jessica shall see that you are not disturbed. And now try and sleep, Quita, and don’t be afraid that there will be any repetition of so disagreeable a scene. I think I have let Miss Lizzie have a piece of my mind, and that she will see I mean what I said. Depend upon it, my dear, that no ill-natured stories or repetitions can ever harm you in the future. The girl is too honest to break her word; and if she suffers a little from keeping it, she deserves as much, for her mean attempt to coerce you. Now, you must promise me to think no more about the matter.’

Maraquita gave the required promise, because she wanted to be left alone; but as she lay in the silent and shaded room, the description that her adopted sister had given her of little waxen hands and fingers, of two dark wistful eyes, and a baby mouth beginning to smile, recurred again and again to her, until something very like the longing of motherhood stirred in her bosom, and made her sob herself to sleep.

Chapter VI

Liz Fellows went home that day sadder than she had been before. Her lover’s defalcation had been a natural sequence to the misfortune that had overtaken her, compared to this. He had judged her harshly, and without proof, but he at least believed (or she thought he did) that she had been untrue to him, and his anger and contempt were those of a dishonoured man. But Maraquita’s conduct admitted of no such palliation. She knew better than any one else, that Liz was innocent of the charge laid against her, and yet she could coolly deny the fact, and appeal to her mother to join her in turning her adopted sister from their doors. She could shield herself behind the humiliation of her friend,—deny her maternity, and delegate her sacred duties—her most holy feelings—to another woman.

‘Feelings! Duties!’ Liz stamped her foot impatiently, as the terms occurred to her mind. Maraquita had no feelings, and recognised no duty. She was lower than the feeble little animals, who would die sooner than desert their young. She had brought a helpless infant—presumably the infant of her lover—into the world, and would not even acknowledge it was hers. Who was the father of this child, thought Liz, that he could stand by quietly and see the desertion of his offspring? Had he no natural instincts, any more than the partner of his sin? Would they both leave their infant to the tender mercies of the world, whilst they went their own ways—one, to be married to the Governor of San Diego—the other, Heaven best knew where? Well, she had staked her last chance, and lost it. Henri de Courcelles would never now receive the proof of her innocence. He was lost to her for ever, and she must bear the burden of shame laid upon her guiltless head as best she might. As she re-entered the bungalow, a wail from Quita’s hapless infant smote her with compassion.

‘My poor little orphan!’ she exclaimed, as she took it in her arms. ‘You are an outcast as well as myself. You have no parents worthy of the name, and I shall never know the joy of being a mother. We must comfort each other under this great calamity as best we may. They say you are my little daughter, and since they say so, I almost wish you were. But I will love you like a daughter, and teach you to love me like a mother, and so you shall comfort my bruised heart, and I will try and make your life happy.’

Up to that moment Rosa had fed and washed the baby, and slept with it in her arms, but now Lizzie took all these sweet maternal duties into her own hands. She nursed it all that day, and when night came she laid it in her own bed. When it was fairly asleep, and Rosa had run over to the negroes’ quarters to chat with her friends, Liz sat down to her sewing in the sitting-room, calmer and less perplexed than she had been for days past.

Up to that time she had cherished hope, but now all hope was over. She knew the worst. It was bitterly hard to know it, but at all events suspense was at an end, and there was no new trouble to learn. As she sat by the shaded lamplight, wondering if Mr Courtney knew the name of her father’s family, and if the knowledge could be of any use to herself, she heard a light footstep creeping softly along the verandah, a footstep which she recognised at once, and which she had been wont to jump up and welcome. But now Liz sat still, with burning cheeks bent over her needlework. If Maraquita wished to come to any terms with her, she must be the one to propose them. Liz had prayed her last prayer to the companion of her childhood. Presently a very low and fearful voice called her by her name.

‘Lizzie, Lizzie! Are you quite alone?’

But Lizzie refused to answer, and Maraquita was compelled to advance into the room. She looked very white and scared, and the folds of her long mantle fell round a fragile figure.

‘Lizzie! Why will you not speak to me? Papa and mamma have gone to the theatre with Sir Russell Johnstone; but I excused myself on the plea of a headache, so that I might come and see you.’

‘And what do you want with me?’ demanded Lizzie coldly.

‘Cannot you guess? I am so unhappy at what took place this morning. I shall not rest until things are right again between us.’

‘I do not understand you, Quita! I conclude you spoke the truth this morning, or what you believed to be the truth, and I have nothing more to say upon the subject.’

‘Oh, Lizzie, have pity on me! You know it was not the truth; but what can I do? Everything that makes life valuable to me seems slipping through my fingers. I could not make up my mind to confess to my own ruin.’

‘And so you would ruin me instead—I, who have been like a sister to you? You would save your own character at the expense of mine?’

‘But not for always, Lizzie. Only let me get this marriage over, and I shall be better able to see my way before me. And I shall be rich, too, and able to reward you for your kindness. The child shall never be any burden to you, Lizzie. You may depend upon me for that.’

‘And do you suppose I would take your money?’ cried the other contemptuously. ‘Do you ask me to sell my honour? You accuse me publicly of being the unmarried mother of this child, and then offer to pay me for the disgrace. You are only heaping insult upon insult, Quita. You had better leave me before you make me forget myself.’

‘Oh, no, Lizzie, I cannot leave you,’ exclaimed the unhappy girl, drawing nearer to her, ‘until you have heard all I have to say! You have always been my best friend, Lizzie. As a little child I used to run to you in every trouble, and trust you to get me out of every scrape. You will not do less for me now, Lizzie, will you?’

‘You ask too much, Maraquita. You forget that in helping you out of this danger, I involve myself, in the way which good women dread above everything. I have done it, but it is at the expense of our friendship. I can never be friends with you again.’

‘But you must—you must!’ cried Quita, falling on her knees, and hiding her face in Lizzie’s lap, ‘for your father’s sake, Lizzie, if not for mine.’

‘I have done it for my father’s sake,’ replied Lizzie, as she moved away from Maraquita’s clasp. ‘Do you suppose I have not been thinking of him all to-day, and of the promise I made him? Nothing else would have kept me silent; but it is over now, and we need say no more upon the subject. I beg of you, Quita, to leave me, and go home again, for your presence here is very painful to me.’

‘Oh, Lizzie, don’t be so hard! I am not the unfeeling creature you take me for. It is only fear of my parents that makes me shrink from confessing the truth. They would kill me, Lizzie, if they knew it. They would not let me live to disgrace them.’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Lizzie. ‘They would do nothing of the sort. They would reproach you as they have me, and you richly deserve it. But tell the truth whilst you are about it, Maraquita. Say that you have no feeling either for your child or its father (whoever he may be), and I may believe what you say.’

‘But you are wrong,’ interposed Quita eagerly. ‘I love him dearly, and I should have loved it also, if I had not been afraid. And I can prove it to you, Lizzie, for I have come here to-night to see the baby, and I shall come as often as I can without exciting suspicion. Where is she? Let me see her at once.’

‘What baby?’ demanded Liz, with affected ignorance.

‘Oh, Liz! how can you ask? Why, my own baby, of course! The one you have in charge.’

‘I thought you denied this morning that you were a mother, Quita?’

‘I was obliged to do so. What could I say, with mamma or papa liable to come in at any moment? You might as well have asked me to cut my own throat. But here, alone with you, I can say anything! I confess it is mine, Lizzie, and that I knew all about it from the beginning. I told your dear father everything; and he promised that he and you should stand my friends, and prevent my secret from being published to the world.’

‘I have heard all this before,’ said Lizzie, still engaged upon her sewing.

‘And now you will let me see her, won’t you? You will let me hold her in my arms for a little while? I must not stay long, for fear that meddlesome old Jessica should come after me. You will take me to my baby at once, Lizzie?’

‘No,’ replied the Doctor’s daughter firmly.

‘What do you mean? Isn’t she here?’

‘Yes; but you will not see her.’

‘How dare you keep me from her? She is mine, not yours.’

‘You did not say so this morning.’

‘Ah, but then I was mad!’

‘Are you prepared, then, to take your child back to the White House with you? Will you confess the lie of which you have been guilty to your parents, and exonerate me in their eyes of the charge you have brought against me?’

Maraquita shrank backward.

‘Oh, Liz! that is too much. I should destroy all my prospects at a blow by such an admission. Besides, it has nothing to do with the matter. All I want is to see the child. Surely you will not refuse so trifling a request?’

‘I do refuse it.’

‘But you have no right to do so.’

‘By your own account, Maraquita, I have every right. You declared before your mother that this child was mine. Therefore I will keep it as such, and I refuse to let you see her.’

‘And I am determined not to leave the bungalow till I have done so!’ cried Quita, rushing towards the bedroom door.

But Lizzie had reached it before she did, and stood with her back against the panels.

‘You shall not enter here,’ she said, in a tone of authority.

Then Quita took to beseeching. She fell on her knees again, and held Lizzie tightly clasped about her feet.

‘Oh, my dear sister, let me see my baby, if only for a minute! I have been thinking of her ever since this morning, Lizzie,—of the dark eyes you spoke of,—the tiny waxen hands and feet, and the rosebud mouth; and I feel as if I should die if I do not have her in my arms, and kiss her, and tell her that I am her mother.’

‘Will you tell the world so, Maraquita?’

‘You know that I cannot.’

‘Then you will not see your child until you do,’ replied Lizzie, as she locked the bedroom door, and put the key into her pocket. ‘You have openly disgraced me by palming on me the consequences of your own sin. You have denied your motherhood, and given up your most sacred rights and duties. Well, for your sake, and to conceal your shame, I accept them; and the first act which I exercise is to keep the child to myself.’

‘You actually refuse?’ cried Quita, starting to her feet, crimson with indignation.

‘Emphatically. There is only one way you can secure the privilege, and that is by an open confession of the truth.’

‘Then I shall never do it! And you may carry the burden to your life’s end!’ exclaimed Maraquita furiously. ‘And another with it, for you do not know all. You have never asked me the name of the father of this child! You came crying to me this morning about Henri de Courcelles, and how much you loved him, and how anxious he was to discover the parentage of my baby. He has lied to you! He has made use of this dilemma to get rid of you; for he knows whose baby this is as well as I do. He knows the mother and the father of it—for the father is himself!’

She watched the light fade out of Lizzie’s eyes as the cruel truth smote upon her heart, and she grasped at the back of a chair to save herself from falling. But when the first shock was over, she refused to believe the story.

‘Henri!’ she exclaimed, in a faint voice. ‘But it is impossible! Henri is—is—mine!’

‘He pretended to be!’ cried Quita maliciously, ‘because it was a good blind for them up at the White House, I suppose, but he has been mine and mine only for the last twelve months, and he is nearly mad at the idea of losing me now.’

‘And why must he lose you?’ said Lizzie quickly, forgetting her own pain in her lover’s wrongs. ‘If what you say is true, why do you not marry him, and take care of your little child between you?’

Maraquita shrugged her shoulders.

‘Because my people will not hear of such a marriage for me, and think I should lower myself by becoming the wife of an overseer.’

‘Not so much as you have lowered yourself already, Quita.’

‘Perhaps not, but nobody knows that! And then I am already engaged, so it is of no use talking about anything else.’

‘Poor Henri,’ sighed Lizzie.

‘I can’t see why he is to be pitied! He knew from the beginning that it must all end some day. But I little dreamt it would end like this. I am the one who has suffered all the risk and the blame, and yet no one seems to pity me.’

Lizzie was silent. Her heart was burning within her, and yet pride prevented her speech. It was cruelly humiliating to find that all the time she had been engaged to be married to De Courcelles, he had been carrying on with another girl, and had even had the audacity to make his own fault the putative cause for breaking off his engagement to her. She could not decide at the moment whether she loved or hated him the most, his conduct appeared in so mean and despicable a light.

‘You are right, Maraquita,’ she continued, after a pause. ‘He is not worthy of your pity or mine. He has cruelly deceived us both—and you perhaps the most, since even, if he loved you best, he has served you worst! Even now—in the first pitiless agony of hearing your news—I can thank God I do not stand in your position. And if you should ever think better of your decision regarding him, remember I shall not stand in your light, for from this day Henri de Courcelles will be less than nothing to me.’

‘But the child!—you will not desert the child?’ exclaimed Quita, with something like maternal anxiety in her voice.

Liz shuddered.

‘It will be a double burthen to me now,’ she answered; ‘but I have already resolved to do as my father would have wished me, and I will not shirk my self-imposed duty. I will do my utmost for the child.’

‘Oh, Lizzie, you are very good! You make me feel so ashamed of myself,’ said Quita, attempting to kiss her adopted sister.

But Lizzie sprung aside from her.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she cried. ‘Don’t stay near me any longer, or I shall be unable to conceal the loathing I feel for your conduct! False lover—false mother—false friend! Oh, Maraquita, Maraquita! it would have been better if God had called you to Himself when you were as innocent as your unfortunate baby! You and he, between you, have destroyed all my faith in human nature.’

And Liz, throwing herself into a chair, and laying down her head upon the table, sobbed so bitterly and unrestrainedly, that Quita, terrified at the sound, which might attract spectators to spread abroad the news of her being in the bungalow, fled out into the darkness again, and made her way back to the White House.

Chapter VII

Mr Courtney was quite as proud as his wife of the grand marriage his daughter was about to make. He was inordinately fond of Maraquita, and would have considered her a fit match for a prince of the blood royal. At the same time, he was only a planter, and it was a great thing to know that his child was going to marry the highest man in the island. He had plenty of money to bestow on her—Sir Russell Johnstone had opened his eyes when his future father-in-law had mentioned the dowry he would receive with his bride—and when Maraquita had obtained rank and position, his best wishes for her would be gratified. He was sitting in the room which he called his office, and had just dismissed Monsieur de Courcelles, when his wife entered the apartment. Mr Courtney had had occasion to find fault with the overseer that morning. He had not attended to several important matters during the week, and seemed sluggish and indifferent to his master’s orders. Mr Courtney suspected that he had been drinking also, and accused him of the fact, and De Courcelles’ answers had been too sullen to please him. He was brooding over the change in the young man’s behaviour, when Mrs Courtney came panting into the room. It was not often she honoured her husband with her presence during business hours, and he saw at once that she had some communication of importance to make to him.

‘Well, my dear, what is it? Quita not worse this morning, I hope?’

‘Oh, no, Mr Courtney! The dear child grows stronger every hour, under the knowledge of her delightful prospects, and I am most anxious that nothing should occur to mar her recovery, for dear Sir Russell is naturally anxious to have the wedding as soon as possible.’

‘Of course; but that is for you and Quita to decide. You know that I shall spare no money to expedite matters. The sooner the dear girl is Lady Johnstone, the better.’

‘So I say, Mr Courtney,’ replied his wife, looking anxiously round. ‘But are you likely to be undisturbed for a few minutes? Have you dismissed Monsieur de Courcelles for the day?’

‘Yes, and not in the best of humours. He is getting lazy, Nita, and I am not sure that he is keeping as sober as he should be. He gave me something very like insolence this morning. Do you know if anything is wrong with him? Is his engagement with Lizzie Fellows still going on?’

‘Oh, Mr Courtney, this is the very subject on which I wished to see you. De Courcelles has been behaving very badly, in my estimation. You will hardly believe, even when I tell you so, that he has had the presumption to lift his eyes to our Maraquita, and to swear he will be revenged if she marries any other man.’

‘Impossible!’ cried Mr Courtney, starting. He had had his own suspicions respecting the young overseer’s admiration for his daughter and heiress, and, on a former occasion, he had told him so, but he had never had any idea that it had come to an open avowal between them. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he continued, ‘that De Courcelles has had the audacity to address Maraquita on this subject, and to make her cognisant of his affection?’

‘Oh, Mr Courtney, where can your eyes be? How blind you men are! Why, he has been at the poor child’s feet for twelve months past; and Quita has kept him gently off, fearing to deprive you of a valuable servant; but now it has gone too far, and I feel it is time I spoke.’

‘I thought he admired her, and told him there was no hope for him, some little time back; but he assured me I was mistaken. I offered, at the same time, to forward his marriage with Lizzie Fellows, but he declared that there was no engagement between them.’

‘Then he has been deceiving you all round, and is not worthy of your trust and confidence. He was engaged to Lizzie. She told Quita so yesterday, only he broke it off on account of this disgraceful affair at the bungalow. But all the while he has been persecuting our poor girl with his addresses, until she is positively afraid of him, or what he may do.’

‘But what can he do? Surely he has not dared to threaten her?’

‘He has said he will kill her at the very altar, sooner than she shall marry Sir Russell, or any other man, and has thrown the poor child into such a state of distress and perturbation, that I feel certain, unless her mind can be set at complete rest concerning him, it will greatly retard her recovery.’

‘But it must be set at rest. This is quite unbearable!’ exclaimed the planter, striding up and down the room; ‘De Courcelles must leave Beauregard at once. I shall give him his dismissal this afternoon.’

‘Not this afternoon, Mr Courtney. Wait until we are safe on the hill range, and then send him straight away. Maraquita will have no peace until she hears that he is gone.’

‘Fancy the presumption of his aspiring to the hand of our daughter!’ continued Mr Courtney indignantly. ‘A man without a sixpence beyond his weekly stipend, and no chance of increasing that. It is the most barefaced impudence I ever heard of. He shall get the sack before he is a day older.’

‘But you will do it on some other pretence I hope, Mr Courtney. You will not bring in Quita’s name. I should be sorry for it to get known that he dared to fall in love with her. People are so ill-natured; they might say she had given the fellow some encouragement.’

‘They will not dare to say anything against Lady Russell,’ said the father triumphantly. ‘When do you start for the hill range, my dear; and when is the wedding to be?’

‘We go to-morrow morning. I have ordered our palanquins for four o’clock, and Joseph has arranged the coolie service as far as the Government bungalow. Quita wanted to ride up with Sir Russell, but I am afraid of taxing her strength as yet. As for the wedding, they have fixed it between themselves for the fourteenth of next month. Quita’s things cannot all be ready, but Sir Russell is willing to take her as she is, until the trousseau is complete. I never saw a man more in love in my life. He is quite infatuated with her.’

‘And well he may be, for there is not a prettier nor sweeter girl on all the islands. Well, my dear, De Courcelles must go, there is no doubt of that, unless, indeed, he will marry Lizzie Fellows. That would put a stop to all unpleasantness at once.’

‘Marry Lizzie Fellows!’ echoed Mrs Courtney; ‘what, after he has been in love with our Quita! Well, I should be very much surprised if he could do that.’

‘But he was engaged to her (as you say), or nearly so. Poor Fellows told me as much himself. And it would be but reasonable for De Courcelles to settle down. He can’t have Maraquita, that’s quite certain, and he might do worse than fulfil his word to poor Lizzie.’

‘What, after she has disgraced herself?’

‘My dear, are you certain she has disgraced herself? She assured me most solemnly that child was not her own, and had nothing to do with her, and I have never known Lizzie tell a lie. It is as incomprehensible to me as it is to you, and I cannot understand my old friend Fellows leaving the poor girl in such a painful position. Still, you must not forget that I have been just as true to him as Lizzie evidently is to some other person; and we should be the last people to disbelieve her word, because she is unable to give us any further explanation of it.’

Mrs Courtney had greatly fidgeted and changed colour under her husband’s kindly pleading.

‘Oh, Mr Courtney, I really have no patience with you! Do you honestly think any woman would incur such a public disgrace, without making an effort to clear her character? I questioned Lizzie closely myself only yesterday, and she refused to open her lips, even to me, who have known her from a baby. It is quite incredible, and there is only one solution of the mystery—that she pretends to possess this stern sense of honour, in order to hide her want of it.’

‘Is it possible that De Courcelles can be the father of this child?’ said Mr Courtney musingly, hitting the right nail on the head without knowing it.

‘I daresay he is! I shouldn’t be surprised at anything I might hear of Monsieur de Courcelles.’

‘Well, my dear, I suppose he must go,’ returned her husband, with a sigh; ‘and I will speak to him as soon as ever you have left the White House. I cannot have Maraquita annoyed; and indeed if he has behaved shabbily to poor Lizzie, it is not right he should continue to live in her sight. So you may consider that matter settled.’

Upon which assurance Mrs Courtney returned to her own room, to promise her daughter that she should never again be subjected to her cast-off lover’s appeals or reproaches; and the following morning De Courcelles watched their palanquins leaving Beauregard, from the shelter of the oleander thicket. A few hours after, he walked as usual into the presence of his employer. When the day’s business had been disposed of, the overseer rose to go, but Mr Courtney detained him.

‘Take a chair for a few minutes, De Courcelles, I have something of importance to say to you. You may remember a brief conversation that took place between us a few weeks back, on the occasion of Miss Courtney’s illness. I warned you that it would be wise to keep your admiration of her within bounds, and you assured me that you had done so. My wife tells me a different story. She says that Maraquita is both distressed and annoyed by your evident predilection for her, and I cannot have my daughter annoyed. Therefore I think it is best that we should part.’

Mr Courtney was an honest man by nature, unused to finesse or intrigue of any kind, and he had quite forgotten his wife’s caution with respect to introducing Quita’s name as a reason for the overseer’s dismissal. He had gone straight at his fences, and the leap was over. Henri de Courcelles flushed dark crimson as the subject was thus openly mentioned to him.

‘I am quite unaware how I can have annoyed Miss Courtney,’ he replied. ‘I have not even seen her since her recovery.’

‘Is that the case?’ demanded the planter. ‘Then perhaps it was before. But anyway, as she is so shortly to be married to the Governor of San Diego, you must see the propriety of discontinuing any false hopes you may have entertained concerning her.’

‘Miss Courtney’s engagement is, then, a settled thing?’ said De Courcelles bitterly.

‘Certainly, and the wedding-day is fixed for the fourteenth of next month. My daughter will soon rank as the highest lady in the island, and any kindness which, as a young and thoughtless girl, she may have shown you (or any other friend) in the past, must not form any pretension for claiming to be on familiar terms with the Governor’s wife, or Sir Russell Johnstone might resent it as an insult.’

‘I understand you perfectly, sir, and Lady Johnstone need fear no recognition of any claims I may have had upon Miss Courtney, from me.’

‘Claims! I do not understand the term, De Courcelles. What claims could you possibly have upon my daughter? You are forgetting yourself. Miss Courtney can never have been anything to you but a gracious young mistress and friend.’

‘That is how it may be, sir. Miss Courtney knows her own secrets best, and doubtless she has chosen wisely in electing to become the wife of the Governor. Rank and position cover a multitude of sins.’

Mr Courtney did not like the style of address adopted by his overseer, but he scarcely knew how to resent it. He was half afraid to tell him to speak out. What if Maraquita had really been light of conduct, and employed her leisure time in flirting with his overseer? It would be a very embarrassing discovery, but not an unnatural one, when De Courcelles’ extreme beauty and grace of form were taken into consideration. So he thought it prudent to change the topic.

‘Well, well,’ he said testily, ‘we are not here to discuss Miss Courtney’s conduct, but your own. You have not been quite the same as usual lately, De Courcelles. I have observed an unsteadiness, and a disposition to sloth in you, which has grieved me. Come now, let us talk this matter over like two men of the world. We will suppose you have had a slight predilection for my daughter. I am not surprised at it, and I do not blame you; but you must have known it could never be anything more. Well, in a few weeks she will be married, and pass out of your life. What is the use of spoiling the rest of it for her sake? Why not settle down and make a home for yourself? If you were married, all this little unpleasantness would be smoothed away.’

‘That is easy to say, Mr Courtney, but not so easy to do.’

‘I don’t agree with you. There is a nice girl close to your elbow, of whom I spoke to you at the same time I mentioned my daughter. I mean Lizzie Fellows. Ah, you start! You have heard this rumour about her, I suppose, in common with others, and fancy it is true. But I am sure it is not, De Courcelles. I have known Lizzie from a child, and I would stake my life upon her honesty.’

‘You allude to the infant of which she was left in charge, sir?’

‘I am glad to hear you mention it like that. It proves you believe her story. You told me there was no engagement between you, but Mrs Courtney informs me there was, and you broke it off on account of this child. But women jump at conclusions so: perhaps she is mistaken.’

De Courcelles was quite capable of defending himself.

‘Miss Fellows and I were not regularly engaged at the time you spoke to me, sir, nor have we been since. Only when Lizzie refused to give me any explanation concerning her nurse-child, I said in my haste that want of confidence was the death of friendship, and that we had better not meet again.’

‘And you regret so hasty a decision?’

‘Why do you ask me, sir?’

‘Because if you and Lizzie like each other, I should be pleased to see you married. I am fond of the girl, and consider her a sacred charge; and marriage would silence these cruel slanders against her, sooner than anything else. If you can make up your minds on the subject, De Courcelles, I will do for you what I promised before—raise your salary, furnish the Oleander Bungalow afresh, and settle it on you and your wife, and all these little disagreeables will be forgotten before three months are over our heads.’

‘And if not, sir?’ inquired the overseer hastily.

‘If not, De Courcelles, we must part. I am sorry to say it, but I shall consider your refusal (or Lizzie’s) as a proof that the less you are about the White House in the future the better. Not the slightest taint—not even the bare suspicion of one—must rest on the fair name of the future Lady Johnstone.’

‘I understand you, Mr Courtney, and I will consider your proposal. How soon do you expect to get my answer?’

‘Not until you are quite prepared to give it me. You have plenty of time before you. My wife and daughter will be away on the hills for a month, and I have no wish to part with an old friend in such a hurry. Think of it well, De Courcelles. I will look over any of the little derelictions of duty to which I have alluded, in consideration of the disappointment which you must have suffered; but my decision is final with regard to Miss Fellows. You must either marry her, or leave my service.’

De Courcelles left the planter’s presence grinding his teeth with rage. He had burned, while listening to his talk about his daughter’s marriage and future prospects, to tell him to his face that Maraquita was, to all intents and purposes, his wife, and the mother of the child at the bungalow. But he dared not! He was afraid not only of the planter but of the negro population, if such a story got wind in the plantation. Revenge is sometimes very swift and sure in the West Indies, especially when the natives are in a state of insubordination. Besides, he would gain nothing by such an admission. It would not give him back Maraquita—faithless, perjured Maraquita, who, having slipped from his grasp into the arms of the Governor of San Diego, had instigated her parents, by a tissue of falsehoods, to dismiss him summarily from Beauregard. And it would have robbed him of the hope of revenge—a hope sweeter to a Spanish Creole even than love. As Henri de Courcelles thought of it, his hand tightened over the stiletto he always carried in his belt. Banishment from Beauregard would mean to sit down for the remainder of his life under this bitter wrong, without the satisfaction of feeling he had avenged it. At all hazards he must remain near this false love of his. She should never feel secure from him. He would appear before her in her most triumphant moments, and make her tremble with the fear that he was about to accuse her openly of her secret crime. Maraquita Courtney should never know another peaceful moment, whilst he lived to terrify her. But the opportunity depended on his marrying Lizzie Fellows. Well, if it must be so, it must be so. Henri de Courcelles, strolling down the path between the rows of coffee trees, and caressing his handsome moustaches as he went, seemed to have no doubt that he had but to ask to obtain. The conceit of men, where women are concerned, knows no bounds. Every woman, according to their creed, is only too ready to fly into their arms. The good old days when knights were not considered worthy to ask for a lady’s hand until they had achieved some doughty deed to make her proud of them, are gone for ever. Yet, if a girl is particular, or indifferent, or hard to please, she is voted to be either a prude or a jilt. The rougher sex require a few hard raps occasionally, to keep them in order, and the woman who puts them in their place, confers a benefit on the whole of her kind. As Monsieur de Courcelles strolled along, his footsteps carried him in the direction of Lizzie’s bungalow, and thinking no time like the present, he halted on the threshold, and called her by her name. The recollection of how he had last left her presence made him hesitate to walk boldly into it, but he was quite confident that he had but to ask her forgiveness to obtain it. Lizzie was just about to visit her sick negroes. She was dressed in a white gown, covered with an apron and a high bib of brown holland, and on her head she wore a broad-brimmed hat, tied with a black ribbon. She looked pale and weary, but the look of perplexity was gone from her face, and her general expression was calm. She was filling her basket with such medicines as were necessary, when she heard her name called in the old familiar tones of De Courcelles. As the sound struck on her ear, she turned even whiter than before, but resentment prevented her losing her presence of mind.

‘What do you want with me?’ she demanded sharply.

‘Only a few words of explanation and apology. May I come in, Lizzie? I have been longing to do so ever since we parted.’

‘You can enter if you wish it, monsieur, but I cannot imagine what you can possibly have to say to me. I have looked upon our last meeting as a final one.’

‘But may you not change your opinion of it, and of me?’ replied the overseer, as he entered the room, and advanced to her side. ‘I know I sinned against you grossly, almost beyond forgiveness, but you must make allowance for the whirlwind of passion I was in,—for the awful doubt that had assailed me.’

‘I cannot admit that as any excuse for your conduct, monsieur. You had my word that I was innocent, and you were supposed to be my friend. There is no friendship without trust and confidence.’

‘Do not say “supposed,” Lizzie. I was your friend, as I am now, and ever will be, if you will forgive my hasty words, and reinstate me in my old position.’

‘That can never be,’ she rejoined hastily. ‘You were supposed to be much more than my friend, but you deceived me all along.’

‘How can you speak so? How did I deceive you, Lizzie?’

‘I would rather not discuss the subject, monsieur,’ said Lizzie, taking up her basket. ‘This is my time for visiting my patients, and they will be expecting me. I must wish you good-morning.’

‘No, no; I cannot let you go until we have arrived at some explanation!’ exclaimed De Courcelles, detaining her by the folds of her dress. ‘You accuse me of deceiving you, and yet I thought my fault lay in being too outspoken. I know I shouldn’t have said what I did. I regret it deeply, from the bottom of my heart, and I humbly ask your pardon for the implied affront. Is not that sufficient?’

‘It is more than sufficient,’ replied Lizzie coolly, as she disengaged her gown from his grasp, ‘and more than I wished you to say. However, I accept your apology, and we will say no more about it. Now, will you please to let me go?’

‘No, you must stay! Put off your visits till this afternoon, and hear me out. I have not told you half my story. Have you quite forgotten that we are engaged to be married, Lizzie?’

‘I have not forgotten it, but I have ceased to believe in it. You ruptured our engagement of your own free will.’

‘But that was in my anger, and a few angry words, Lizzie, are powerless to undo the tie which had existed for a twelvemonth. I did not mean what I said. I have regretted it ever since, and I am here this morning to ask you to forgive it, and let our engagement stand as it did before.’

He was drawing closer to her, confident in his powers of fascination, but she pushed him from her.

‘Monsieur de Courcelles, I am surprised at you! I am surprised now to think that I should ever have believed in you, or thought the engagement you entered into with me anything but a blind for your more serious intentions in another quarter.’

He started backward with astonishment, little dreaming that she knew the whole of Maraquita’s sad history.

‘I don’t understand you,’ he gasped. ‘I have never been engaged to any woman but yourself. I don’t desire to marry any other woman. I came here to-day with the express purpose of asking you to condone the past, and marry me as soon as may be convenient to you.’

A few weeks before, how her heart would have beat at such a proposal, how her cheek would have flamed assent, and her humid eyes have sought his with grateful love. But now she sprang aside as if he had insulted her, and flashed defiance on him to repeat the offence.

‘How dare you?’ she panted. ‘How dare you speak to me of marriage—you, who have treated me with scorn and contumely?’

‘But I have acknowledged my error, Lizzie. Surely you are not a woman to resent a fault for ever. You used to love me, I am sure of that.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ she interposed hastily. ‘I loved something, I know,—some creature conjured up by my imagination, but not the man of flesh and blood I see before me. For I did not know you then, and no one can love an unknown person.’

‘Lizzie, you are very hard upon me! I am not perfect, any more than other men, but I don’t know what I can have done to merit such bitter taunts from you. At all events, try and know me now as the man who loves you, and entreats you to marry him. Lizzie, be my wife! Mr Courtney is aware of our attachment, and has made a very generous offer of assistance, if we marry each other. If your affection for me was ever true, you will not refuse me now.’

‘My affection for you was true,’ replied Lizzie, looking him full in the face; ‘and all the more does that make me say I will never marry you now. Never! Not if there was not another man in the world.’

‘But why? Surely you will give me a reason for your refusal, Lizzie.’

‘My reason is soon given, monsieur. Maraquita—my earliest friend and my adopted sister—was here last night. She came to ask permission to see the child, of whom both of you have accused me of being the mother, and I refused her. I told her since I had to bear the blame, I would also maintain the authority over it. And then—in a moment of passion, I suppose—somewhat like that moment which influenced you basely to get out of your engagement to me by means of a lie—she told me the name of the child’s father. Now, do you wonder that I say that henceforth there never can be any communion between you and me, except of the most ordinary kind. The man who could take advantage of his own sin to ruin the character of an innocent woman, will never make a good husband to any one, and I have done with you for ever!’

Henri de Courcelles turned his face away to the open window, the dark blood mantling for very shame into his cheeks.

‘I have nothing to say for myself,’ he muttered presently. ‘I am only a man, and men are very open to temptations such as these. But if I have sinned, I have also suffered. I was led on by a heartless woman, who has deserted her child, and thrown me over for the first suitor who presents himself with money and position in his hands. I would have married her willingly, but she refused to marry me. She is an infernal jilt, with as false a heart and tongue as ever woman had; and she has been my ruin. She is nothing to me now, and she never will be. If you took compassion on me, Lizzie, and healed my sore heart with your pure affection, you should never have reason to complain of even my thoughts straying that way. I hate the very name of her.’

‘That is no palliation of your fault, in my eyes, monsieur. I should feel for you more if you told me her desertion had made you miserable. But why do you not appeal to Mr Courtney to stop this unnatural marriage? Did he know the truth, he would surely never allow his daughter so to prostitute herself.’

‘What good should I effect by that, Lizzie? Mr Courtney would only banish me at once from Beauregard. Do you suppose he would give up the prospect of Maraquita becoming the Governor’s wife, for the sake of an overseer? Besides, he already suspects that I admire her, and has told me as much, with the adjoinder that the only condition on which I can retain my situation is to fulfil my engagement with you, and settle down at the Oleander Bungalow as a married man. In that case, he has promised to refurnish the house, and raise my salary. So, you see, we should be very comfortable; and, if you wished it, you could retain your medical appointment over the plantation.’

‘And so I am to be made the scapegoat to bear your sins into the wilderness, and to patch up your injured character at Beauregard! You have mistaken me altogether. I am capable, I think, of making great sacrifices for a man who loves me, but not for one who rightly belongs to another woman. You will not retain your position at Beauregard through my means.’

‘Then I am ruined,’ returned the overseer fiercely, ‘and I owe my downfall to you two women! You have destroyed my life between you. I shall be turned off the plantation, without a prospect of employment. And if I become desperate, it will be laid at your door.’

‘At Maraquita’s, if you please, monsieur, but not at mine. I would have clung to you through good and evil report, had you been true to me. But I cannot forget the cruel infamy you put upon me, knowing it to be false. It is a crime past a woman’s forgiveness,—a calumny that will cling to me through life, even though you married me in church to-morrow. Yet I would rather go down to the grave enduring it, than become your wife.’

‘It is finished then!’ exclaimed De Courcelles, seizing his hat and rushing from the apartment, ‘and I will trouble you no more on the subject, now or ever,’—and the next moment he was striding hurriedly towards his home.

Lizzie trembled as he left her, but she did not weep. Her stock of tears was exhausted. And had they not been, a cry from the infant in the next room would have dried them at their fount. She summoned Rosa, who was basking asleep in the verandah, to its assistance, and with a deep, deep sigh for her dead past, lifted her basket, and took her way to the coolie quarters.

Chapter VIII

Jerusha, the East Indian coolie, sat at the door of her hut, nursing her baby on her knee, and with a very sullen expression on her countenance. Indeed, all the hands on Beauregard had borne more or less of a rebellious look of late. They had no particular grudge against Mr Courtney, who was a kind, if rather an indolent master, delegating all his duties to his overseer; but they detested Henri de Courcelles, and the accounts of his cruelty, and selfishness, and dishonesty, formed the staple portion of their conversation. His very beauty, and evident self-consciousness of it, the vast superiority which he assumed over them, and the rigour with which he carried out the rules of the plantation, all combined to set the coolies against him, and they thirsted to find out something which might degrade him from his office. The reports from the Fort, too, the constant attempts at rising which had to be quelled, had incited them on to imitation, and altogether the plantation workers were seething under a sense of wrong, and ripe for rebellion. Poor little Jerusha, with her handsome half-caste baby in her arms, might have furnished them with a pretext for denouncing the overseer, had not her case been too common a one amongst them. But to the girl it meant the devastation of her life. She had not courted her destiny. She had been landed in San Diego, a poor trembling Indian coolie amongst a herd of fellow-sufferers, who had been persuaded to leave Calcutta under a promise of good wages, and plenty of food, and very little work, and after a voyage of four months (during which they had been herded between decks like so many swine), had been marched ashore at San Diego, too weak and frightened and disappointed to have any hope left in them, unless it were that they might die. They had been all standing together for hire, when De Courcelles had sauntered by and picked out the likely ones for Mr Courtney’s plantation. Jerusha well remembered how he came like a prince amongst them, and how handsome he had looked in his white linen suit and broad-brimmed hat, with the blue silk handkerchief knotted at his throat, and the crimson rose blooming in his button-hole,—and when he had stopped beside her and spoken to her in his low soft tone, she had thought him more glorious still. She had not sought him out, this poor little Indian girl, but he had pertinaciously come after her. He had asked for her the very day after she had entered the plantation, and put so many questions as to whether her hut was comfortable, and her food sufficient, that Jerusha was quite bewildered. And then he had given her new clothes, smart dresses—such as the natives love to deck themselves in—and gold earrings for her ears; and the usual consequence followed. She fell to the tempter’s seductive arts. It was a sort of heaven to the poor untaught coolie to be selected from all the other girls to be the favourite of the handsome young overseer. She never troubled her head to think how long his preference would last. She knew that he would never marry her—she would have laughed at so ludicrous an idea—and yet she fancied somehow that her happiness would never end, and was terribly disappointed and bitterly incensed when the day came that De Courcelles ordered her back to her quarters with the other coolies, and refused to make any difference between them. She had reproached him with his conduct on the occasion which has been related, but, if anything, it had had the effect of making him more severe with her, and Jerusha realised at last that all was over between them, and that she had been only a tool and a plaything to minister to his short-lived pleasure. She was pondering resentfully on his neglect as she sat on the ground, with both her hands clasped round her knees to make a cradle for her little Henri, as she would persist in calling the child, greatly to the annoyance of the overseer. Henri was a beautiful infant, large and round and buoyant, with much more of the father than the mother in his appearance. He was gaily dressed in a short calico shirt of red and white striped cotton, with bangles on his fat brown arms, and a string of blue beads round his neck, and as Jerusha rocked him to and fro, and heard him crow with delight at the exercise, the gloom on her face would suddenly disappear, and she would seize the boy in her arms and kiss him vehemently. As she was thus amusing herself, a shadow fell between her and the setting sun, and old Jessica from the White House stood before her. Jessica had been much put out by her young mistress leaving her behind when she started for the hill range. It was the first time such a thing had occurred, and the old nurse felt it accordingly. Had she not waited on Missy Quita, hand and foot, ever since she was a baby? and if she had been sharp enough to discover her secret, had she not kept it as faithfully as Missy would have done herself? And why should Missy Quita leave her behind just as she had obtained her wish and was on the road to make the great marriage that Jessica had always foretold for her? The faithful old negress felt aggrieved; and when sunset came, and Mr Courtney had gone out for his evening drive, and the White House seemed deserted, her heart turned to her old friends in the negro quarters, and she walked down to have a chat with them, and unburden herself of her troubles.

‘Eh, Jerusha, gal!’ she exclaimed, as she caught sight of the young East Indian, ‘and how’s de baby? He berry fine boy, Jerusha. He make big strong coolie, bime-by.’

‘Coolie,’ repeated Jerusha scornfully. ‘My little Henri never make coolie boy. I tell you dat, Aunty Jess. Henri’s a lord’s son, and he’ll be gennelman, bime-by.’

‘You go ways, Jerusha; you talking nonsense! Lords is only for great ladies like my Missy Quita.’

‘Missy Quita going to marry a lord?’ said Jerusha inquisitively, as Jessica took a seat beside her.

‘Wall, he’s not quite a lord yet, but I ’spect he will be bime-by. But he’s a great rich gennelman, and the Governor of San Diego, and that’s next to being a king—jes’ so! But I wish my missy take me up to hills with her. I never been lef’ behind before. I can’t tell why my missy think to go widout me.’

‘Praps she want de lord all to herself—’

‘I not interferin’ wid her little games! All her life I let her do jes’ as she like; and she don’t mind ole Jessica! Ah, I know more dan one secret ob my missy’s—you bet, Jerusha!’

‘I dessay! All gals hab dere secrets, and dere lovers too. Dis lord not Missy Quita’s first lover, I know.’

‘Why, o’ course not—handsome young lady like dat. But de good looks not allays de good heart. Missy not grateful, ’pears to me,’ grumbled Jessica. ‘She not want me any longer now she got Sir Russell to wait on her.’

‘De good looks not allays de good heart,’ echoed Jerusha; ‘you may well say dat, Aunty Jess. De good looks sometimes cover de debbil’s heart—like Massa Courcelles’!’

‘Sakes! what you know ’bout him, Jerusha?’

‘I don’t know no good of him, Aunty.’

‘Jes’ like all de rest ob de world. I nebber could bear dat oberseer; he berry bad fellow; and dis morning he ’sulted me dreffully. Jes’ hear, Jerusha. I comin’ from White House, quiet as could be, wid nothin’ to do, now my missy gone, when I meet dat Courcelles walkin’ along and swearin’ to himself. He came straight up to me and he say, “Out ob my way, you d—d old hag! If it hadn’t been for your peepin’ and listenin’, I believe I should have had my own way. Wait till I get you down to de cotton fields agen, and I’ll serve you out for dis.”’

‘Laws, Aunty Jess, and what you say?’

‘I say “You jes’ stop dat, you bad man. I knows all about you; and you’ll nebber get me down to cotton fields agen, for if you tries it, I’ll blow de roof ob de Oleander Bungalow off your head, and tell de ole master eberyting!”’

‘An’ what is der to tell?’ cried Jerusha, with sudden interest.

‘Sakes, gal, more than you guess! But I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you, now my missy safe, and goin’ to marry de Governor. ’Sides, my missy not behave berry grateful to me. ’Tis de way wid de white folk. Why, Jerusha, dat oberseer Missy Quita’s lover for ober a year, and she go out night after night to meet him in de bungalow, as I’m a livin’ woman—’

‘She—go—meet—Massa Courcelles?’ gasped Jerusha.

‘Sure! And more, dat baby down at Doctor’s bungalow no more Miss Lizzie’s child than it is yours. Dat baby ’long to Missy Quita and Massa Courcelles. I knows! but I never tell till my missy so ungrateful as to leave me behind, and dat man swear and call me “d—d hag!” But you nebber tell nobody else, Jerusha! You keep dat secret like your life, till de wedding’s ober—and then, what matter?’

‘Dat baby is his? Oh, de false man!’ cried the coolie, with flashing eyes, as she sprang to her feet, and held little Henri at arm’s length. ‘And dis chile ob mine, dis white-skinned boy, who you think he ’long to, Aunty Jessica? Why, to that villain too! Dat’s his fader! Your fine Massa Courcelles, what ruin your missy and me same time!’

‘What you say, Jerusha? Your baby’s fader de oberseer?’

‘Sure! Didn’t he favour me ober all de other coolie girls on de plantation? Didn’t he give me my earrings and bangles and my Sunday shawl, and tell me I de prettiest girl he ebber see? And I fool enough to believe him, Aunty; I thinkin’ he lub me allays, and be good to me, for little Henri’s sake. But when he found I should hab a baby, he sent me back to de fields, and I work dere till I nearly drop. And he beat me—yes, Aunty!’ shrieked Jerusha in her rage, as she turned her flaming eyes up to the skies; ‘he whipped me and my poor baby, and laughed when I dared him to strike us! And I vowed to hab my revenge on him, and I will hab it yet. Massa Courcelles shall live to wish he nebber deceived a poor coolie girl, or struck her baby! That’s so!’

‘And I’ll help you, Jerusha, for I hate dat man, and I swore once to give him obeah water for deceiving my poor missy. And now he serve you de same—dat’s twice bad; and I know anudder heart what he’s broken, though she as good and pure as de white May lilies in de garden—and dat’s Miss Lizzie.’

‘Nebber Miss Lizzie!’ cried Jerusha incredulously. ‘Miss Lizzie do wicked ting? Why, she’s de best woman I ebber see!’

‘No, no, Jerusha! I not mean dat. Only dis villain make lub to de poor gal, and promise to marry her, and now she breakin’ her heart because he so false. Rosa tell me eberyting. She pretend to be asleep in verandah dis morning, and hear all they say. Miss Lizzie ’clare she nebber, nebber marry him now.’

‘She miserable woman if she do,’ said Jerusha. ‘But hush, Aunty Jess, here come Miss Lizzie. Don’t say nuffin ’bout little Henri ’fore her. She too good and sweet! She not like us! I never dare tell her who was his fader.’

As the coolie spoke, Lizzie came up to them, pale but smiling. She carried her basket as usual on her arm, and as soon as she saw little Henri, she drew a small sponge-cake from a selection of such dainties which she carried for the sick, and held it out to him.

‘What a beauty he grows, Jerusha! He will soon be out of arms now, and toddling after you everywhere.’

‘Yes, Missy Liz, he bery fine boy,’ replied the young mother, in a subdued tone.

‘Is anything the matter?’ said Lizzie, quickly glancing from Jerusha to the old nurse. ‘No bad news of Miss Maraquita, I hope, Jessica?’

‘Oh, no, Missy Liz. Missy quite well enough, I guess. ’Tis them she leave behind what feel bad.’

‘You miss her, I daresay, and the White House seems dull without her. Well, you will soon be gay enough when the wedding takes place.’

‘I s’pose so, Missy Liz. Is dat baby at your bungalow all right, missy?’ continued Jessica inquisitively.

Lizzie flushed to the roots of her hair. She had encountered some impertinence on this subject before, and she feared a repetition of it.

‘It is quite well, Jessica, although it is very weakly, and I am not at all sure of rearing it.’

‘A good ting if it die,’ said the nurse; ‘and if all such babies died, Missy Liz—we’ve no room for them here.’

‘You shouldn’t say that, Jessica,’ returned Lizzie mildly; ‘for it may be God’s will that it should live.’

‘Better say good ting if its fader died!’ exclaimed Jerusha. ‘That’s the sort we’ve no room for. Ah, Missy Liz, no use you opening your eyes like dat. We know plenty on dis plantation, we do!—and we know de good from de bad too, and may de Lord help us to root ’em out.’

‘Have you any special enemy here then, Jerusha?’ demanded Lizzie.

‘Yes, I have,’ replied the coolie, with dogged determination. ‘Massa Courcelles is my special enemy, and I hate him!’

‘Monsieur de Courcelles, Jerusha? Has he been unkind to you, or done you any wrong?’

‘He has done me dis wrong!’ cried Jerusha, holding out her baby. ‘He has given me dis chile, and blows on the top of it!’

She would have said more, but Lizzie put her hand to her head, and, with a low cry, passed swiftly from them. The women gazed after her in astonishment. They could not understand a nature without any feeling of revenge in it,—with only the deepest pain for the sins of one it loved, and a horror of hearing them mentioned by others. They thought that Lizzie had misunderstood them, or had not heard aright.

‘Dat’s funny!’ exclaimed Jerusha. ‘’Pears I didn’t put things right, or she would have smacked little Henri on the head, or killed him dead, as I’d like to kill dat baby at de bungalow.’

‘Missy Liz not one of our sort,’ said Jessica. ‘She allays berry quiet and gentle, but I guess she feel same as rest.’

‘Does she know about dat baby at de bungalow?’

‘I ’spect she knows eberyting, and dat dese low niggers say it is her chile: same as Massa Courcelles did! Poor Miss Lizzie, she’s too good for us. She oughter run a knife into him and the chile too.’

‘That’s so,’ cried Jerusha; ‘and dat’s what I will do for her! I full of revenge, Jessica. I like to get up some night and fire de Oleander Bungalow, and burn dat man in his bed! I like to stick him wid knife, same as pig—an’ to make him drink poison water till he die.’

‘Better give him de obeah water—dat safe and silent,’ replied the nurse; ‘but you must do it secret, Jerusha. You mustn’t tell anybody but me.’

‘I telling no one; but I watch and wait, and I hab my revenge. I swear it on my little Henri’s head!’ said Jerusha solemnly.

Chapter IX

Meanwhile Maraquita, up on the hill range, was fast recovering her equanimity. With Lizzie and the Doctor’s bungalow out of sight; with her mother’s assurance that De Courcelles should be banished from Beauregard before they returned to it; with recuperated health, and the prospect of a marriage beyond her most ambitious dreams, life seemed to stretch out like one long vista of pleasure before her. Hers was a shallow, frivolous nature, incapable of looking beyond the present, or of dwelling long upon the past. She was a terrible coward though, and had she remained on the plantation, and been subjected to the entreaties and reproaches of her lover, might have thrown up everything to link her fate with his, and regretted it bitterly for ever afterwards. The marriage she was about to make with Sir Russell Johnstone was in reality far better suited to her. So long as he was attentive to her, and loaded her with presents, she didn’t mind his being middle-aged and ugly, for she had very little sentiment in her nature, and no idea of love as it should be betwixt man and woman. Her notion of a lover was of some one who must be always paying her compliments, or giving her pretty things, or devising schemes for her enjoyment, and in these particulars Sir Russell was perfect. He displayed all the infatuation and imbecility which usually attacks an elderly man who finds himself in sudden and unexpected possession of a beautiful girl; and Maraquita could never inhale too much of the incense of flattery. She bridled, and simpered, and blushed under his adoring glances, as if she had never been subjected to such an ordeal before; whilst Mrs Courtney would entreat ‘dear Sir Russell to spare her little girl such a battery of admiration, or he would frighten her back into her shell.’ Quita was beginning to give herself also all the airs and graces of a Governor’s wife, and to hold her head above even her own mother. The Government Bungalow was charmingly commodious, and filled with official servants, whom the little lady ordered about as if they already belonged to her; and in fact she had already reconciled herself so effectually to her new position, that she had almost forgotten that which was just past, and which she was ready to try and believe had never existed. She rode with the Governor, and walked with him, and smiled at his compliments, and even suffered him to embrace her, without the least display of repugnance or dislike. Not that the recollection of Henri de Courcelles had entirely ceased to trouble her. She thought of him often, but with no warmer feeling than fear. She would start, every now and then, in the midst of her occupation, to remember the threat he had made her, and to shiver under the apprehension that he might fulfil it. She would run at such times to her mother, and implore her to find out if De Courcelles had really left their service, and if he had quitted San Diego, or was lingering round Beauregard. She declared that she never could summon courage to be married until she knew that there was no fear of her former lover way-laying her on her way to church, as he had sworn to do, and perhaps injuring or frightening her into a betrayal of the secret between them. Mrs Courtney became so anxious at last that her daughter’s mind should be set at rest, that she asked her husband to join them on the hills for a few days, thinking it would be safer to confer with him on the subject by word of mouth, than through a letter. Mr Courtney came up as soon as his business would permit him, and the first moment his wife had him to herself, she broached the distasteful subject.

‘What have you done about De Courcelles, Mr Courtney? Have you given him warning to leave us?’

‘I have, my dear, for I feel very dissatisfied concerning him. I sent for him as soon as you had left home, as I told you I should, and informed him that reports had reached me concerning himself and Maraquita that I could not pass over without comment.’

‘Oh, Mr Courtney! I begged you not to use our dear girl’s name.’

‘Well, I couldn’t tell him a lie, Nita, and I really could invent no better excuse for sending him away. So I thought honesty would be, as usual, the best policy.’

‘But what did he say to it?’ demanded Mrs Courtney breathlessly. ‘Did he deny the fact, or—or—tell any falsehoods about it?’

‘Not that I am aware of. He neither admitted nor denied the truth of my statement, but I could see from his manner that it had hit home. So I told him he could stay on the plantation on one condition only, and that was that he fulfilled his engagement with Lizzie Fellows.’

‘I wish you hadn’t,’ replied his wife, with a look of vexation. ‘I don’t want him to stay, under any circumstances. Things can never be the same again between us after the avowal of his impudent pretensions, and I can’t see how the matter would be improved by his marrying Lizzie Fellows. In fact, Mr Courtney, I think you should also try and provide for Lizzie elsewhere, for Quita can hardly notice her when she is Lady Johnstone, after what she has done.’

‘Nita, I don’t believe she has done anything she need be ashamed of. I have full faith in Lizzie, as I have told you before, and I will not insult her by a suspicion of wrong. However, with regard to her marrying Henri de Courcelles, you may set your mind at rest, for she has refused him.’

‘Lizzie has refused to marry De Courcelles?’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney, with amazement.

‘Have I not said so? De Courcelles seemed quite ready to accede to my proposal, and I gave him a week to settle it in. Before a couple of days were over our heads, however, he came to tell me that it was of no use, and Miss Fellows had refused to have anything to do with him. I told him I couldn’t go back from my word, and that (under the circumstances) I refused to retain him on the plantation as an unmarried man, so I would pay him a quarter’s salary, and he must clear out in a week. But before I did so, I walked down to Lizzie’s bungalow, and had a very plain conversation with her on the subject.’

Mrs Courtney’s complexion faded to a dull yellow.

‘About the nurse-child? Does she still deny that it is hers?’

‘Emphatically, and with such undeniable sincerity, that I quite believe her. I would stake my life that she has nothing to do with that child except to take care of it. She is a most injured woman, in my opinion, and I urged her, for her own sake as well as ours, to do as her father (were he living) would command her, and reveal the name of the mother of the infant.’

‘Oh, Mr Courtney, how very wrong of you to try and make Lizzie break her oath! Why, it would be perjury!’ cried Mrs Courtney, virtuously indignant, and trembling with anxiety, ‘and I would rather think she had fallen, than commit such a crime. Surely she was not so weak as to be persuaded to do such a thing?’

‘No; she is adamant, and her lips are closed like a vice. She refuses to say anything upon the subject, excepting to reiterate her former assertion that the child is not hers. And she told me the reason she had rejected Monsieur de Courcelles’ proposal is because he has said the same thing of her as other people.’

‘Well, of course. What can she expect?’ said his wife, looking infinitely relieved. ‘It is very hard on the poor girl, but she is bound to keep her oath; and people will talk. I have heard the coolies speaking of it in the most confident manner, as if they had not the slightest doubt that she is the baby’s mother.’

‘I’d like to hear a coolie talking of her affairs in my presence!’ returned Mr Courtney, clenching his fist. ‘He wouldn’t talk again in a hurry. If I can’t do anything else for the daughter of my poor dead friend, I will protect her. But there was something Lizzie said that somewhat puzzled me, Nita. In speaking of De Courcelles, she used these terms,—“He, who of all others should have died before he accused me of a crime of which he knew I was guiltless.” She emphasised the word “knew” so deeply that it attracted my attention, and I asked her how De Courcelles should know of her innocence above other people. But I could get nothing further out of her. She blushed to her eyes, poor girl, and was silent; but I was sure she felt she had gone too far. What can De Courcelles know for certain, Nita? Is it possible he can have anything to do with this mysterious little stranger at the bungalow?’

‘Dear me, Mr Courtney, how can I answer the question?’ exclaimed his wife pettishly. ‘I don’t see anything peculiar in Lizzie’s words. She meant, doubtless, that being her betrothed husband, he should have had more faith in her virtue; and so he should. But men judge women by themselves, and so we seldom come off scot-free. But are you going to get another overseer? That is the most important thing to me. I can’t think of that De Courcelles’ presumption with any patience.’

‘Yes, yes, my dear! it is all settled, and he leaves us next week. I have already engaged his successor—Mr Campbell, who used to manage the Glendinning estates before old Mr Houston died. He bears an excellent character, and, I trust, may prove all we require. He is noted for his kindness to his coolies; and I am afraid De Courcelles has not raised the character of Beauregard in that respect.’

‘Oh, he is a wretch all round!’ cried Mrs Courtney; ‘and I shall not breathe freely till he is gone. I hope he will leave the island altogether.’

‘That I cannot tell you, for I have nothing to do with his movements after he quits the plantation. I think he is sure to do so, however, as he is not a favourite in San Diego, and would find it difficult to get another situation here. But let us talk of something more pleasant, Nita. How is our Maraquita getting on with the Governor? Is it all plain sailing?’

‘Plain sailing?’ echoed Mrs Courtney. ‘What a term to apply to it. Why, they positively adore each other, my dear, and are never happy when apart. Sir Russell is only too charming. He follows Quita about everywhere, and waits on her like a slave. He has given her the most exquisite diamond pendant, and an Arab horse that cost him two hundred pounds. I am longing to see our darling installed as the mistress of Government House. Sir Russell means to go over to Trinidad for the honeymoon. The Government steamer will take them on board directly after the wedding-breakfast; and they will be absent for a month. The day after they return to Government House, the marriage will be celebrated by a splendid ball. He is going to issue invitations to everybody in the island—high and low. Isn’t it noble of Sir Russell? But he says he would ask the whole world, if he could, to witness his triumph in the possession of so lovely a bride.’

‘I don’t wonder at his enthusiasm,’ exclaimed the father, ‘for he has got the loveliest girl in the British possessions! But what about her fal-lals, my dear? Can they be got ready in time?’

‘Only just enough to go on with, Mr Courtney; but Sir Russell is as impatient as a boy of twenty, and refuses to wait a day over the month. I have sent my orders to England, as you desired me; but, of course, they can’t be here in time. The wedding-dress I can luckily supply. Perhaps you have forgotten the exquisite dress of Honiton lace you gave me when the dear child was born. I am having it made up over white satin; and she could wear nothing, Sir Russell says, more elegant or appropriate. As the happy event is taking place in the hot season, Maraquita can wear nothing but white muslin and lace, which I shall have no trouble in procuring for her; and by the time the rainy season sets in, her dresses will have arrived from England. Really, Mr Courtney, it seems as if the fates smiled upon her, for nothing could be more fortunate than everything has turned out.’

The planter acquiesced in his wife’s opinion, and the few days he spent on the hills confirmed it as his own. No two people could appear to be happier than Quita and her fiancé. She suffered herself to be loved, and caressed, and petted to any extent; and Sir Russell was always ready to gratify her. Her proud father thought she looked lovelier than ever, under the consciousness of her coming honours, and went back to Beauregard fully satisfied that she was the most fortunate girl in the world. But as the time passed on, and the moment drew near when the mother and daughter must also quit the hills, Quita’s agitation became very apparent.

‘Mamma,’ she would say, in a horrified whisper, clinging fast to her mother’s hand, ‘are you quite, quite sure he has left Beauregard?’

‘Quite sure, my dearest. Your father sent him away a fortnight ago, and Mr Campbell, the new overseer, is living at the Oleander Bungalow in his stead.’

‘But might he not be hiding somewhere near? At Shanty Hill, or in the Miners’ Gulch? There are public-houses in both those places.’

‘Quita, my child, you must get over this foolish fear. In the first place, your father is quite convinced that De Courcelles has left San Diego, as there is no vacant situation in the island for which he could apply; and in the second, even if he were in the neighbourhood he would not dare to speak to you, far less to try and injure you.’

‘Ah, mamma, you don’t know Henri! You should have seen his eyes when he said he would stab me at the altar. He is terrible when he is in a rage. And I feel convinced he will keep his word. He will hang about Beauregard till my wedding-day, and then he will hide in the church and shoot me, and I shall die in my wedding-dress, bespattered with blood!’ replied Quita, relapsing into tears at the awful picture she had conjured up in her imagination.

‘Quita, you will make yourself ill if you go on like this!’ said Mrs Courtney, with grave solicitude. ‘You are really too silly to be reasoned with. Do you forget you are going to be the Governor’s wife? You are not going to marry a nobody, but a man high in position and power, and no one will dare to assail you either by word or deed. The church in which you are married will be lined with the military; and if you are nervous, Sir Russell will have a special guard of honour to protect you. But don’t let him guess at any of your nervous fears, for Heaven’s sake, or he may get curious to learn the cause of them. Rely on me, Quita, that all will be well.’

‘But there is another thing, mamma,’ said the girl, after a pause. ‘I am horribly afraid that old Jessica knows too much. One night when—when—I had been at the bungalow, I found her awake and watching for my return. And two or three times she has muttered hints that I could not misunderstand.’

‘Oh, Quita, Quita, what trouble you have got yourself into. It seems as if we should never surmount the difficulties in our path. I shall know no peace until you are Lady Johnstone.’

‘Nor I either, mamma! But can’t we send Jessica away too? I don’t intend to take her to Government House, and you will have no use for her when I am gone.’

‘My dear, I am afraid it would be dangerous to dismiss her. She would guess the reason, and these negroes are very revengeful. They will serve you to the death, so long as you make them your friends; but once turn round on them, and their malice knows no bounds. Jessica has been with you since your birth, and to send her adrift just as you are going to be married, would be to set her tongue going like a mill-wheel. No, Quita, you must pursue a more politic course! I think we made a mistake in not bringing Jessica up to the hills with us. Had I known what you tell me now, I would not have consented to her being left behind; but you must take her some presents when we return, and do all in your power to conciliate her. Don’t encourage any familiarity, nor appear to understand any hints she may give you, but keep her in a good temper, my dear child, until after the fourteenth, whatever you do.’

Acting on her mother’s advice, Maraquita took a gaily-coloured shawl and a necklace of gilt beads to Jessica when she returned to the White House, and made the old nurse’s heart repent that she had been led into repeating any scandal about her missy. But the departure of the overseer was too important an event to be passed over in silence, and Maraquita was doomed to hear a repetition of what was thought concerning it in the coolie quarters.

‘Missy seen de new oberseer?’ Jessica commenced, the first moment they were left alone. ‘He berry fine man,—broader den Massa Courcelles, and plenty more colour in face; nice hair too—same colour as de carrots—and a soft voice, kinder like a woman’s.’

‘No, Jessica, I haven’t seen him yet; but papa has asked him to dine with us this evening.’

‘Ah, Missy won’t like him same as Massa Courcelles, for sure,—but Massa Campbell good man for all dat, and Massa Courcelles berry bad man—all de niggers dance when he go ’way, and Jerusha she throw mud after him, and frighten his horse so he stand right up on his two legs.’

‘Was he hurt?’ cried Quita suddenly.

However frivolous a woman may be, she cannot quite lose all interest, at a moment’s notice, in the man she has loved.

‘Oh, no, missy! Massa Courcelles same like part of horse. He nebber thrown; only, he swear and curse plenty at Jerusha.’

‘Who is Jerusha?’ asked Quita, betrayed by curiosity into forgetting her studied reticence; ‘and why should she throw dirt at Monsieur de Courcelles?’

‘Ah, missy not knowing. Jerusha only a poor coolie, but all de niggers would throw dirt at Massa Courcelles if they dared. But he been berry bad man to poor Jerusha—same as he been to my missy,’ added Jessica, in a lower tone.

Maraquita turned deathly white.

‘How has he hurt Jerusha?’ she asked, in spite of herself.

‘He’s left her with a baby, Missy Quita—a nice baby, too, most as white as himself, with his eyes and hair; but Jerusha feel bad about it, ’cause he’s treated her berry cruel, and whipt them both with de cowhide.’

Maraquita turned her head aside, and burst into tears. She would have given worlds that the old nurse should not have witnessed her emotion, but she could not restrain it. How true it is that the love of most women is founded on vanity, and that even if they do not want a man themselves, they cannot bear that any one else should have him. Besides, this degrading liaison with a coolie girl had taken place at the very time that Henri de Courcelles had been swearing eternal love to herself. Quita did indeed feel at that moment that she had parted with a woman’s best possession for nothing. She had never been so terribly humiliated before. Jessica was not slow to take advantage of her young mistress’s weakness.

‘Don’t cry, missy,’ she said; ‘dat man not worth one tear from my missy’s bright eyes. He false and cruel, and got bad heart. Missy forget all about dis trouble when she marry de Governor. And Missy Liz will keep de secret, nebber fear, and old Jessica too. Nobody tell nuffin, de Governor nebber know, and den eberyting go right.’

But this allusion roused the instinctive fear in Maraquita’s bosom. She forgot her mother’s caution, and the folly of resenting the old nurse’s hints. She forgot everything, except the awful fear of exposure, and in her alarm she played her worst card, and turned round upon Jessica like a fury.

‘What do you mean by speaking to me like that?’ she panted. ‘How dare you pretend to think that I cried because I was in trouble for any one but the poor coolie girl? I know I am a fool to feel such things. Any one is a fool who wastes a tear on you coloured people, for you are all false, and mischief-making, and scandalous; but it is too bad that you should speak as though I were crying for myself. What trouble could I be in? I have everything I want, and in a few days I shall marry the Governor, and none of you will dare to say a word against me; and if you do, Sir Russell will have you whipped, and put in prison, and you may lie and die there, for aught I care.’

It was a foolish and childish rage in which she indulged, but Quita was not much raised above the coloured people she professed to scorn, either in intellect or education. Yet it was sufficient to excite the desire for revenge in the object of her wrath.

‘Missy have me whipped and put in prison?’ she shrieked; ‘me—who hab nursed her in my bosom, ever since she was a tiny baby? Oh, no, Missy Quita, you nebber mean dat! I will tell Massa Courtney, and de Governor, eberyting before dat. I tell dem all I know. I clare de character of poor Missy Liz, down at de Doctor’s bungalow, and I tell whose child dat is what she nurse day and night.’

‘Oh, Jessica!’ cried Maraquita, frightened beyond expression, as she threw herself on her knees before the old negress, ‘don’t say that. I was beside myself. I didn’t stop to weigh my words. I know you are good and faithful, and will be true to me, and keep my terrible secret, for you wouldn’t ruin your poor little missy who loves you; would you, Jessica?’

But the old negress was not to be so easily conciliated. She looked very surly, even whilst Maraquita’s white arms were wreathed about her withered neck.

‘Missy Quita, you berry ungrateful gal,’ she murmured presently. ‘How many nights I sit up and watch and wait, while you flirting wid dat overseer, fear your moder or some one come and find you out? Den when you taken bad, ole Jess know your trouble all de time, and nebber speak one word. But now you going to be grand rich lady, you want to kick old Jessica out, and forget all she done for you. But I won’t be kicked out, Missy Quita. You must take me to Government House, and give me good wages, or I won’t keep your secret any longer; and it isn’t no good saying I’m ungrateful, missy, ’cause you were ungrateful first, and you knows it.’

Maraquita saw the terrible mistake she had made, when it was too late. Why had she not remembered her mother’s advice to conciliate the old negress until the marriage was an accomplished fact? Then, Mrs Courtney would have devised some plan to keep her quiet. But now there was but one course open to her,—to promise to give Jessica everything she demanded, however unreasonable.

‘Why, of course, Nursey,’ she answered, with assumed playfulness. ‘Did you think I was going to leave my old darkey behind? What should I do without you? You shall come to Government House as soon as I am settled there, and dress me in the mornings, as you have always been used to do; and perhaps some day you may nurse my little children as you nursed me. Will that content you, Jessica?’ she added, with trembling lips that ill-concealed her anxiety.

‘And missy will raise my wages?’ demanded the negress; ‘Governor’s lady give better wages than planter’s daughter, and I hab worked for eighteen long years in your service, Missy Quita.’

‘Yes, yes! You shall have any wages you like, Jessica. I shall tell Sir Russell what a good servant you have been to me, and he will be proud to reward you. But perhaps you would rather have a pension,’ said Quita wistfully, ‘or a lump sum of money, that will enable you to go back to your own country, and live there.’

‘No, missy; I rather live and die with you. You seem like my own child to me, and San Diego like my country. I no want go way; and if missy good to me, I keep her secrets always, and no one shall hear ole Jess tell de truth about her.’

Maraquita felt this was only a compromise, but she had no alternative but to accept it. There was a hard, stony look in old Jessica’s eyes that alarmed her, and made her doubt her promises of fidelity. She was not slow to perceive, either, the mercenary motive of her demand for higher wages, but she could not afford to comment on it. She had put herself in the power of another woman—the most terrible bondage the sex is ever subjected to—and she saw no way to loosen her chains, except by perfect acquiescence. But she loathed the old negress, even while she forced herself to caress her. The affection of her whole life seemed to have faded beneath the ordeal to which it had been subjected. Jessica was no longer the kind and faithful nurse who had tended her from her infancy, and to whom she had run in every dilemma, but a hard and grasping creditor, who had possession of that which might ruin her life, and demanded her very blood in ransom. However, there seemed no way but one out of the scrape, and so Maraquita promised to do all and everything that the negress might require, and tried to soothe her ruffled feelings with soft words and caresses.

But she did not feel sure that she had succeeded, even though Jessica paid her some honied compliments in return, and lay down in her bed that night longing more than ever that the wedding-day had come and gone.

All went smoothly, however. No one saw or heard anything further of Henri de Courcelles, nor was Quita even annoyed by the mention of his name. He seemed to have totally disappeared from Beauregard, and Mr Courtney fully believed that he had left the island. The old nurse made no further disagreeable allusions to the past, and appeared to be as devoted to her young mistress as she had ever been, so that Maraquita regained her lightness of heart, and turned her attention entirely to the brilliant prospects before her. The fourteenth was close at hand, and the preparations for the Governor’s wedding, which was to take place in the Fort church, were on a scale of magnificence never before attempted in San Diego. The church was to be embowered in flowers; the military were to line the road leading to it; half the gentry in the island were to be engaged in singing a choral service; and a splendid barouche, drawn by four horses, and preceded by a guard of honour, was to convey the newly-married couple back to Beauregard.

Here, naturally, all were in a flutter. Mrs Courtney, never a good housekeeper, was nearly out of her mind over the wedding-breakfast and the completion of Maraquita’s dress, and was thankful to delegate the issuing of the invitations to her husband and her daughter. Mr Courtney made out the list of names, whilst Maraquita wrote the invitations in a very irregular hand on gold-edged paper. Half-way down the list she came upon the name of Miss Fellows.

‘Lizzie?’ she exclaimed, with rather rashly expressed astonishment.

‘Of course! why not?’ returned her father quickly.

‘Well, because, although we don’t believe the reports about her, papa, other people do, and some of the ladies of San Diego might object to meet her.’

Mr Courtney consigned the ladies of San Diego to a warmer region, but held to his determination.

‘There shall be no festivity held in my house to which Lizzie Fellows is not invited,’ he answered sternly; ‘and the fact that she is still welcomed here, will be the best denial of these infamous calumnies against her. I should be ashamed of you, my daughter, if you consented to her name being omitted from our guests. The poor girl has suffered enough from the death of her father, and the rascality of that scoundrel De Courcelles, to say nothing of these cruel rumours, without our turning our backs upon her.’

The mention of De Courcelles’ name was enough to stop Maraquita’s tongue, and she wrote the invitation without further comment. Only, as both she and her mother anticipated, Lizzie’s reply was in the negative. She made her recent loss the excuse for not joining in any gaiety; but Maraquita and Mrs Courtney knew that after the insults they had hurled at her, she would never place her foot voluntarily again within the walls of the White House.

END OF VOL. II.

---

VOL. III.

Chapter I

Rosa, the yellow girl, was sauntering up and down the avenue of tulip trees which formed an approach of a quarter of a mile to the plantation of Beauregard, in a very discontented and sullen humour. She was holding Maraquita’s baby in her arms, and she was dressed in her very best. Her cotton gown was of the deepest rose colour; on her feet she wore white stockings and prunella shoes with sandals; her long black curls—in which she prided herself there was no trace of negro crispness—were surmounted by a handkerchief of bright orange silk, which Miss Lizzie had given her as a reward for her kindness to her little charge. But what was the good of it all? thought Rosa; what was the use of wearing her gilt earrings and her string of coral beads, when there was no one to see them—not even a coolie boy left on the plantation? For this was a general holiday. Not a hand was to work, either in the coffee or sugar fields, for it was Miss Maraquita’s wedding-day, and all the coloured people were off to the Fort Church to witness the ceremony. All, that is to say, except poor Rosa. But Miss Lizzie had refused to give her leave. She had promised the yellow girl that she would take charge of the baby in the afternoon, and let her join the big dinner that was to be given to all the hands at sunset, and the dance that would follow it, but she would not consent to let her go to the church. Lizzie had her own reasons for the denial—Rosa might have been sure that she would never have been unjust or unkind to any one—but she did not choose to tell them to her servant.

She thought it would scarcely be delicate to let Rosa, who had the care of the poor outcast baby, and was like a second mother to it, form one of the gaping crowd to see Maraquita married to the Governor. It was something too terrible to Lizzie to think that her adopted sister could do this thing, and she decided that herself and all who had any part to bear in her sinful secret were much better out of the way. So she had condemned Rosa to remain in the plantation with the infant, who was growing quite a big child, and the yellow girl was proportionately discontented.

There was a certain young Creole called Juan who had been paying her great attention lately, and whom she entertained serious thoughts of marrying. The silk handkerchief, the earrings, and the coral beads had all been donned for Juan’s benefit, and now he was off to the Fort with some other girl maybe—with Chloe, or Celeste, or Marie—and she had to walk up and down this stupid avenue with the baby in her arms. Rosa could have shaken the baby for keeping her from the much-coveted spectacle.

As she was thinking over her disappointment, Judy—Mammy Lila’s granddaughter—walked from behind a tall bush, and confronted her.

‘Hillo, Rosa!’ she cried. ‘Is dat Missy Liz’s baby? My! how dat grown; she’s pretty heavy now, I guess.’

Judy was an ugly, cunning-looking young negress, of perhaps fifteen—tall and lanky and large-boned, with a propensity for lying and thieving and everything that was wrong.

‘Heavy?’ echoed Rosa; ‘you may say dat. She breaks my arm pretty well carrying her all day long. But ain’t you going to the wedding, Judy? It’s most time to be off. Don’t I wish I’se going too.’

‘Why ain’t you going, Rosa, gal? Uncle Mose say dat will be de finest sight ebber seen in San Diego. And you got your Sunday gown on too! Why you not go?’

‘’Cause Missy Liz say no; and I nebber go back to her if I disobey! But you’se going, Judy, sure?’

‘No, Rosa! I’se got bad head dis morning,’ replied Judy, with a cunning look, and her lean hand to her woolly hair, ‘and I’se can’t stand long walk. I’se better stay here till de dinner-bell sound.’

‘Dere now!’ cried Rosa, with vexation. ‘Ain’t dat a muddle? Why, I’d gib my best earrings to be able to go. I shall nebber forgive myself dat I not see Miss Quita’s wedding.’

‘You can see de carriages coming down de drive; and Miss Quita in her white dress—all lace,’ said Judy.

‘Dat ain’t de ting! But what you low niggers know about grand folk’s ways? I want to be one of de church company, and hear de wedding ceremony,’ replied Rosa, mouthing the long word.

‘So you can, den, Rosa. Jes’ gib de chile to me, and I’ll hold it till you come back. Don’t take no time to marry, you know; jest a few words, and it’s all over; and I won’t leave dis place while you’re gone.’

‘Is dat a fac’, Judy?’ exclaimed the yellow girl, with a brightening face. ‘Will you hold the baby whiles I gone? Den I’ll keep my word, and you shall hab de earrings, for you’re the berry pusson as I wanted to meet—dat’s so;’ and placing the infant in Judy’s arms, she disengaged the gilt trinkets from her ears, and laid them in her hand. ‘Judy, you’se a real good gal, and you won’t stir from dis avenue till I come back; and if you sees Miss Lizzie a-coming, you’ll bolt in bushes like rattlesnake? Is dat so?’

‘Dat is so, Rosa. I’ll keep her safe, nebber fear. I likes nussing de babies, and my head ain’t good for nuffin else dis morning.’

‘I’ll hurry back quick as I can directly dat’s over!’ cried Rosa, as she darted down the tulip tree avenue, in order to reach the Fort before the carriages from Beauregard.

As soon as she was out of sight, Judy gave one look around to make sure she was unobserved, and then dived with the child into the thick bushes that skirted the drive on either side. She had not gone far before she was met by Henri de Courcelles. He was dressed much as usual, but he was looking very pale and dissipated, and there was a dark look about his eyes that seemed as though he had been drinking hard, or going without his natural rest. As he encountered Judy, he accosted her roughly.

‘So you’ve got the child?’

‘Oh, yes, Massa Courcelles, and wid berry little trouble. Rosa jes’ mad to go to wedding. She jump wid joy when I tell her I’d hold de baby, and gib me her best earrings into de bargain; but I promise I be back here when she return from church, so massa won’t be long after her, eh?’

‘You shall be back as soon as ever it is possible: I promise you so much; but you must come with me to San Diego. You don’t suppose I’m going to carry that?’

‘Massa please,’ replied the coolie, shrugging her shoulders; ‘all same to me. I can tell Rosa anyting,—dat I’se too bad to walk, and took de baby to my hut, eh?’

‘I’ve no doubt you are equal to inventing any number of lies to suit your purpose; but now you must follow me.’

De Courcelles led the way as he spoke by many a devious path through the thicket, until they reached the outer boundary of the plantation, where he hustled Judy and the child into a close carriage which he had in waiting, and ordered the driver to take them to the Fort.

Meanwhile, Maraquita, dressed in her bridal robes of lace and orange blossoms, and with a costly veil covering her to the ground, stepped into the carriage which was to convey her to church. The vehicle had been re-painted for the auspicious occasion, and re-lined with a delicate silver grey brocade. The horses were caparisoned in silver harness, with large cockades of white ribbon at their ears, and the coloured coachman and footman in brand new liveries wore large bouquets of white flowers in their button-holes. Four or five other vehicles followed that in which sat the bride between her adoring parents, and contained relations of the family, and intimate friends who were staying in the house. It was a trying ordeal for Mr and Mrs Courtney, who were about to part with the one blossom of their marriage-tree; but though the father was nervous and agitated, and the mother could not prevent the tears rising to her eyes, the brilliant position their daughter had attained for herself was the greatest consideration in their minds, and outbalanced any pain they may have felt at the impending separation. Quita herself felt overwhelmed at the knowledge of her good fortune. She had so dreaded lest something might occur to mar her prospects, that she was almost hysterical at the idea that they were about to be consummated. She turned from one parent to the other in a glow of expectation and triumph, which flushed her usually pale cheeks, and lent a fire to her eye, that made her truly beautiful. As the carriage approached the Fort, in which the English Church was situated, they found the road lined with eager faces, both white and coloured, and a shout of welcome and congratulation went up as soon as they appeared. Sir Russell Johnstone was in the church porch waiting to receive his bride, and it would have been difficult to find a more lovely creature than stepped from the carriage and stood before him, trembling (as it appeared) with modesty and maiden shame. The church was crowded, every pew was filled with friends and acquaintances carrying nosegays, the aisles were lined with darkies grinning from ear to ear, the pillars and rails were wreathed with flowers and ferns. Never was there a prettier wedding, nor a more auspicious one. As Maraquita was led to the altar by her father and mother, the organist commenced to play, and the choir, who had been practising for the last month, sang a marriage hymn. Quita felt, for the time being, as if she were about to wed the man of her choice, and had no regrets to spare for a mistaken past. The flowers, the melody, the congratulatory looks by which she was surrounded, appealed to her senses, until she was ready to believe that she was worthy of them. Henri de Courcelles had no place whatever in her thoughts that morning. Out of sight, was truly out of mind with her shallow soul, and she remembered nothing but that she was about to become Lady Johnstone, and all the unmarried girls in San Diego were envying her good luck. She went through the service as calmly as possible. Mrs Courtney sobbed like a school-girl, her husband blew his nose and changed his feet every minute, and Sir Russell was visibly agitated. Only the beautiful young bride made her responses in an unfaltering voice, and held up her face as soon as the ceremony was over, to receive her bridegroom’s kiss, as quietly as if she had been married for ten years. It was over then, and there was nothing more to do but to sign her name in the register, and go forth to take her place in a world which seemed strewn with roses, and in which no inconvenient memories should rise up to trouble her. The organ pealed forth the wedding march. Sir Russell extended his arm for her acceptance, and Maraquita realised that at last she really was his wife, and no one could deprive her of the position he had bestowed upon her. She beamed with smiles of satisfaction as she walked down the aisle on her husband’s arm, returning the bows on either side, and treading on the roses, and lilies, and myrtle strewn by the children in her path. Sir Russell’s carriage, with its four horses and outriders, and its stately guard of honour, was waiting to receive her, and take her back to her father’s house for breakfast, and her heart swelled with pride as she caught sight of it, beyond the crowd that clustered round the church door and steps, and threatened to impede her way. But she had hardly placed her foot on the red carpet that had been laid down for her accommodation, when her eye fell on a group that riveted her to the spot, and almost made her breath stop,—a group that seemed to rise up as it were from the very earth itself, like a Nemesis, to rob her of her joy. Maraquita stared at it as if she were turning to stone, while her face grew deadly pale, and her limbs tottered under her. Her first impulse had been to scream, but the strong instinct of self-preservation inherent in every nature prevented her, and the effort to restrain herself resulted in her falling suddenly from Sir Russell’s support, and sinking to the ground in a dead faint. A dozen people were round her in a moment. Some declared it must be the heat—others, the excitement and fatigue—only one person amongst them all, and that was her mother, Mrs Courtney, discovered the real cause of her daughter’s emotion. She had come upon the scene in time to see the dark handsome face of Henri de Courcelles glaring like that of an avenging angel above the crowd, whilst in his arms he held up high on view his infant. She had cowered herself beneath the sight—no wonder it had affected her poor Maraquita. In a commanding voice she had desired the church peons to disperse the crowd, and when the bride was sufficiently recovered to be taken to her carriage, no one was left to molest her. One anxious despairing look passed between her mother and herself, but a hurried whisper from Mrs Courtney somewhat reassured her, and by the time they reached Beauregard, Maraquita was to all appearances herself again. But only to the view of strangers, for long after she had left San Diego, and the Government steamer was conveying Sir Russell and Lady Johnstone to a sister island to spend their honeymoon, she sat with her large dark eyes staring out into the star-bespangled night, in which she saw nothing but the picture of a man’s face, full of hate and frenzy and revenge,—of a man who held a little infant in his arms. And as she thought of it, Lady Johnstone felt the tears roll down her face (as they should not have rolled down the face of a newly-wedded woman), in memory of a past which she hated and loved, and longed-for and dreaded, all at the same time.

Chapter II

Hugh Norris had not been slow to avail himself of Lizzie’s permission to visit her. He had knocked about a good deal in the world, and he had seen all sorts and conditions of women, but he had never met any one to interest him, and hold his sympathies, like the Doctor’s daughter. It was not only that she was firm and sweet in temper, and strong in mind, and clever and energetic—there was a more binding tie between them than that. They thought together; and if men and women would realise that kindred tastes and ideas form the only lasting bond between friends, there would be fewer unhappy marriages than there are. There is a great deal of talk heard on occasions about the happiness of surrendering one’s opinions in deference to those of the person one loves, but that notion is only believed in by the men who wish to be master, and ride roughshod over their household gods. To surrender is to give up one’s mental and moral liberty, and there may be duty in bondage, but there can be no pleasure. Marriage should be the cementing of a friendship between the sexes, and it is the only safe light by which to regard it. There should be plenty of giving in it, but no giving up! And Captain Norris felt that if Lizzie Fellows could learn to regard him as he did her, there would be very few jars in their domestic ménage. He had been detained in San Diego much longer than he had anticipated. Just as he got his cargo on board, and was ready to start, a serious damage had been discovered in the Trevelyan, and he had been compelled to send her into dock for repairs. Although the delay meant a considerable loss of money to him, Captain Norris did not regret it. He did not feel easy, in common with many of the residents, with regard to the safety of the island; and to leave Lizzie in possible danger, surrounded by a horde of mutinous coolies, and without the possibility of obtaining news of her for months together, would have been a sore trial to him. He would have taken her with him gladly as his wife, or as an ordinary passenger, but he knew her character too well to propose it. Had she been affianced to him, and danger threatened her benefactor and his family, she would have died with them, sooner than desert them in the time of uncertainty. And uncertainty seemed to prevail in San Diego. Grave mutterings were heard on every side of averted rebellions and suppressed mutinies, and the planters knew that it needed but the necessary boldness on the part of one set of hands to rise, to set the whole negro population aflame with the lust for rapine and murder. Sir Russell Johnstone was not a favourite amongst them, for he disliked the coloured people, and had passed some very harsh sentences on the prisoners brought up to him for judgment, and his name was seldom mentioned without an execration attached to it. The hands on Beauregard had not shown discontent beyond the ordinary grumblings and small impertinences common amongst the coolies; but Hugh Norris knew the character of the people well, and he distrusted them. He remembered how in former mutinies, both in the East and West Indies, the actual fight for the supremacy had been preceded for a long time by half-suppressed murmurs and complaints, like the muttering of the elements before a tempest, and that, when the storm broke, it came like a clap of thunder, suddenly and unexpectedly, and overwhelmed its victims before they were hardly aware of the danger they incurred. So he was glad than otherwise to be detained in San Diego, though what he heard and saw there did not tend to reassure him. He was present at Maraquita’s wedding, being a friend both of Sir Russell Johnstone and the Courtneys; but he declined the invitation to the breakfast, both because he disliked such festivities, and that Lizzie Fellows, he knew, would not be there. But on the evening of the same day he strolled into her bungalow, and seated himself without ceremony like an old friend.

‘So, Lizzie,’ he commenced, ‘you were not present at the grand wedding this morning?’

‘No. I asked them to excuse me, Captain Norris. My dear father’s recent death renders it very unfit that I should mix in any gaiety.’

‘But your adopted sister’s marriage, Lizzie! Surely that was an occasion on which you might have relaxed your strict seclusion?’

He had marked the coolness which had separated Lizzie of late from Mrs Courtney and her daughter, and he had his own suspicions on the subject; but he had not presumed to put them into words.

‘They didn’t think so. They were quite satisfied to let me follow my own wishes,’ replied the girl quietly.

‘And how is your nurse-child? Thriving?’

Lizzie’s eyes sparkled.

‘Beautifully, thank you. She is growing such a dear little creature, and knows me as well as possible.’

‘Have you had her baptised?’

‘How strange you should ask me that question,’ remarked Lizzie thoughtfully, looking up from her work. ‘It is the very thing I was about to consult you on! How often we seem to have the same ideas at the same moment! I think you must be a wizard, and read my thoughts!’

‘It is because we are so much in sympathy with each other, Lizzie. But what about the mysterious baby? Have you decided on the name you will call her?’

‘No; I have never troubled my head about it. Any name will do.’

‘Oh, poor little lady! let us give her a pretty one whilst we are about it. Why not call her after yourself?’

Lizzie shrank from the idea.

‘Oh, no! She has nothing to do with me. Please suggest something else.’

‘Poor mite! she seems to have nothing to do with any one. She is a little blot upon the universe. But she is God’s own child. Suppose we call her after His mother.’

‘Mary! Yes, I like that idea. What is your mother’s name, Captain Norris?’

‘The same. I was thinking partly of her when I spoke.’

‘Then I shall like the name doubly for her sake. I am sure she must be a good woman, to have borne such a son as you are.’

‘I am afraid that is not much recommendation for her, Lizzie,’ returned Hugh Norris, laughing. ‘But she is a good woman—the best woman I have ever known—for all that. And how she would love you! How I wish you knew her: you would get on so well together.’

‘How can you tell that?’

‘Because you have the same tastes. My mother is quite a doctor in her way; and all the country people believe in her immensely. Only she is a herbalist, and does not approve of strong drugs. Since my father died, and her sons have gone out into the world, she has lived alone in a cottage in the sweetest spot of Kent you have ever seen; and she is beloved of the whole country-side. But I wish there was some one to live with her, now she is getting old. She has never had a daughter, my dear old mother! How she would love and cherish one!’

‘How many brothers have you?’ asked Lizzie, trying to run away from the dangerous subject.

‘Two, George and Frederick. George is in the Indian Army, and has been out in Bengal for the last five years; and Fred is in business in London. He goes down to see mother every now and then; but they are only flying visits, and she must feel very lonely at times.’

‘Yes, very! How often do you see her?’

‘Every few months, as a rule; but my time in England is necessarily short. If I had a wife—’ said Captain Norris, and there stopped.

‘Well,’ remarked Lizzie encouragingly, ‘what then?’

‘I was going to say that (with her permission, of course) I shouldn’t be entirely selfish: I should leave her behind me some voyages, that she might keep my mother company. It wouldn’t be for long, perhaps, for I hope to get work on shore some day—I shouldn’t like to spend all my life roving about like this, without any settled home.’

‘But it must be glorious to sail about all over the world, and see so many new countries!’ cried Lizzie, with kindling eyes.

‘It is, whilst a man is young and independent, and has no ties to pull at his heart-strings. You would enjoy it, Lizzie, I am sure. Your free and energetic spirit would be quite in accord with the unfettered elements, and you would glory in seeing them circumvented (for mastered they can never be) by the ingenuity or prevision of men.’

‘Yes, I should like it, I am sure. It is the sort of life that would carry one out of oneself, and make one almost forget how much falsehood and wickedness and ingratitude hold their place amongst men. To be out on the open sea from morning to night, and to know for certain that no one who has injured or disappointed you can follow you there, and that you are alone with God and your own thoughts—it must be a kind of little heaven in itself, if—if—’

‘If what, Lizzie?’ demanded Hugh Norris eagerly.

‘If one went with the person one loved,’ she replied, with a slight increase of colour.

‘Let us talk of the baby—of little Mary,’ he said impatiently. ‘When shall we have her christened?’

‘Any day, if you will be her godfather, and share the responsibility of her with me.’

‘Willingly. As she is to bear my mother’s name, I consider it incumbent on me to do so. But, Lizzie, have you taken my advice about this child? Have you appealed to her parents to lift the burden they have laid upon you, by at least a partial confession of their error?’

‘I have,’ she answered, in a low voice.

‘And they refused?’

‘I only saw the mother, and she denied all knowledge of her child. The—the—other parent I could not speak to.’

‘You know the names of both of them then.’

She bowed her head in silence.

‘Lizzie, I think I have guessed your secret, or at least part of it. The father of this infant is Henri de Courcelles.’

‘What should make you say that, Captain Norris?’ she exclaimed, in a tone of alarm.

‘The hesitation in your voice when you alluded to him; but I have had my suspicions of it before now. And shall I tell you the name of the mother who has left you to bear the burden of her shameful secret?’

‘No, no, Captain Norris,’ cried Lizzie, springing from her chair; ‘you must not say it! I will not hear it! You are mistaken! It is not true! Oh, my dear friend,’ she continued, laying her hand upon his arm, ‘think—think what you are doing. The honour of a whole family is involved in your discovery. Be silent. Keep the secret sacred, as I do, for God’s sake.’

‘And what about the honour of the woman I love?’ he asked tenderly, as he looked into her face; ‘am I not to think of that?’

‘If you love her,’ replied Lizzie, blushing, ‘you must know that her honour is safe. But for the other—so young—so weak—’

‘So unprincipled—so false, you mean!’ said Hugh Norris indignantly. ‘Well, it will come home to her some day, see if it does not.’

‘But never through my means,’ said Lizzie.

‘No, not through you, my angel, but God will take care of His own. You will not always live under this cloud. You would leave it behind you to-morrow, if you would but consent to be my honoured wife.’

‘Not while it hangs over me,’ she whispered.

‘And afterwards—’

‘Ah, Captain Norris, do not ask me! You are my best and truest friend, and the man who would make me happier than any one else in the world. I quite believe that. I say it after calm deliberation, and a careful investigation of your character. But I am not in a position to marry any one, and I never may be. Leave it to the future. If I am ever free, and you are still of the same mind, I will answer the question you ask me to-day.’

‘And I will live on that promise, Lizzie,’ replied Hugh Norris, ‘for I feel the time of your release is not far off. If you persist in sacrificing yourself for the sake of your oath, your friends are not bound to see you do it, without making an effort in your behalf. But I have something to say to you before I go. Will you be very careful of yourself, for my sake?’

‘In what way?’ she asked, with open eyes. ‘The fever is nearly passed; and if it had not done so, I am fever-proof.’

‘There is a worse pestilence abroad than the fever, Lizzie,—a lust for murder, and rapine, and insubordination. The negroes are ripe for rebellion, and if there should be an insurrection, there may be fire and bloodshed.’

‘Oh, they will never hurt me!’ replied Lizzie, with a confident smile.

‘My dear, when the thirst for blood gets possession of a mob, infuriated by a sense of wrong, they do not stay to distinguish friends from foes. I feel uneasy that you should stay in this bungalow alone, Lizzie, with no better protection than Rosa. It is not safe. Do you bar your doors and windows at night?’

‘Bar my doors and windows?’ repeated Lizzie, with a smile. ‘Why, Captain Norris, they stand open night and day; and I don’t believe there is a fastening to any one of them. The coolies would indeed think I had gone out of my mind, if they saw me bolting myself in from fear of them.’

‘But I don’t like it,’ said Hugh Norris, with a sigh. ‘I have witnessed several mutinies, Lizzie; and if there should be a grudge borne against you by one person only, it may be sufficient to incense the entire mob. Suppose they were to fire your bungalow, and destroy all your property?’

‘Captain Norris, do you really think it is so likely to occur?’ demanded Lizzie, struck by the portentous gravity of her friend.

‘I do indeed, or I should not caution you.’

‘Then they may injure the White House, or do some harm to Mr and Mrs Courtney!’ she exclaimed in alarm. ‘Should you not warn them? They are of far more importance than myself.’

‘I won’t allow that; but Mr Courtney, at least, is aware of the danger. The planters have held a meeting on the subject, with a view to inquiring into the coolies’ fancied wrongs, but not, I understand, with any satisfactory results. In fact, they can’t make out what it is they do want, and I don’t think the darkies know themselves. Only the demons of distrust and discontent are stalking abroad, and it behoves every white man to be extra careful.’

‘Suppose they were to hurt Maraquita,’ suggested Lizzie, with a shudder. ‘She is not a favourite amongst them, poor child, I know.’

‘And will be none the more for having married the Governor; for the coloured population have taken a strong dislike to Sir Russell Johnstone, as the discovered plots against Government House plainly show. However, she will have every protection that the military forces can give her, and you have none. It is of you that I am thinking, Lizzie. I wish I could persuade you to leave this bungalow, and go and stay in the Fort till the danger is over.’

‘Oh, dear no! That is quite impossible. What, run away from my patients, and leave them to die, for fear lest some of the men amongst whom I have grown up might turn against me? Captain Norris, you cannot think what you are asking me. Indeed, I have no fear—not the slightest. These coolies love me—I know they do—and would die for me sooner than harm a hair of my head.’

‘Perhaps so, Lizzie; though I have not much faith in any coloured people. But you have the coolies of other plantations to guard against. They do not confine their attacks to their employers’ property. If the hands on Miners’ Gulch or Sans Souci, or any other estate, were to rise, they might make a raid on Beauregard. Now, do you understand the danger you may be in?’

‘Yes,’ replied Lizzie thoughtfully; ‘I had not considered that. I will ask Mr Courtney if old Peter or William Hall may sleep at the bungalow for the future, though I do not think they will be much protection. But I am not afraid,—indeed I am not.’

‘You are the most courageous woman I have ever met,’ replied Captain Norris. ‘I don’t believe you are afraid of anything.’

‘Except of injuring those who have been good to me,’ she said, somewhat timidly. ‘Captain Norris, there is something on my mind that I feel bound to mention to you. My name is not Fellows, and I don’t know what my real name is.’

‘Are you not the Doctor’s daughter, then?’ he demanded, in surprise.

‘Oh, yes, and though it may astonish you hereafter to remember I said so, I would not give up the knowledge that I am his daughter for all the world. Poor father! He was so unhappy, so unfortunate, so erring. His soul was purified like that of an angel by the suffering he passed through.’

‘Pardon me, Lizzie, but did I hear aright when you said your father was erring?’

‘Yes, Captain Norris, erring beyond the generality of men. I should not have mentioned it to you, except for the kind sentiments you have expressed towards me this evening, and which make me feel that, before they go further, you have a right to know all. The week before he died, my father made a communication to me which I had never heard before, and which he forbade me to repeat during his lifetime. His death has, of course, released me from that duty, and I am sure that he would have wished you, of all men, to be acquainted with the truth. But I am afraid that it will shock you terribly, Captain Norris, to hear that my poor father was a criminal in hiding from the law, and, except for the goodness of Mr Courtney, he would have suffered the penalty of transportation. This was the secret of the great friendship between them, and why my father changed his name, to prevent his retreat from being discovered.’

‘And yet Mr Courtney remained his friend to his life’s end. How good a man your father must have been, Lizzie (but for this youthful error), that his conduct had no power to separate him from the person who knew and loved him best.’

‘Ah, that is how I look at it!’ cried Lizzie, seizing his hand, and bursting into tears; ‘but I hardly expected to hear so generous a judgment from your lips. If suffering, and repentance, and a desire to make amendment, can atone for a man’s sin, I believe my poor father fully expiated his. He was an exile from all his relations, and lived under an assumed name, with no one but myself for a companion, and his profession for occupation. I am not aware if I sprung from the gutter, or came of a decent family. All I know is that I am called Elizabeth Fellows, and that, although guiltless myself, I am not a fit wife for any honest or honourable man.’

‘You shall not speak to me like that,’ exclaimed Hugh Norris indignantly, ‘for it is not true! You are fit, in your own sweet self, to mate with the best man that ever lived; and I consider you as far above me as the stars are above the earth. But I think you should ascertain your real name, and who your relations are. Your father is gone, Lizzie. The discovery can never hurt him now, and there is no saying how much benefit it may prove to you. Cannot Mr Courtney give you the necessary information?’

‘I believe he can, but I have shrunk from asking him. This terrible scandal about me—’

‘Don’t let that prevent you. Be your own brave self, and meet the calumny as it deserves. Take my advice, Lizzie, and demand an explanation from Mr Courtney as soon as possible. Life is uncertain, you know, and he might die before you have ascertained the truth about yourself. Then you might never hear it.’

‘He will be surprised to find me asking questions about which I have shown no curiosity for so many years. He will wonder what can have put it into my head.’

Hugh Norris drew nearer to her, and seized her hand.

‘Say you are engaged to be married to me, and that you consider I have a right to know everything concerning yourself.’

‘But that would not be true.’

‘Make it true, then. It lies with you to do so.’

‘No, Captain Norris,’ she replied gently, withdrawing her hand from his. ‘I cannot—at least just yet. Give me a little time to recover myself. Remember that but a few weeks back I considered myself betrothed to Monsieur de Courcelles.’

‘And you love him still,’ he answered roughly, in his disappointment.

‘No, no, I do not! I despise him for his falsehood and treachery, and for his despicable conduct in trying to evade the consequences of his own fault, at the expense of the character of the woman he once professed to love. If there were not another man in all the world, I would never place myself again under the yoke of Henri de Courcelles. But to engage myself so soon to you—it would be hardly decent.’

‘Have your own way then,’ replied Hugh Norris, as he rose from his seat, and took his cap in his hand. ‘I have asked you for the third time, and failed. I shall begin to disbelieve in my good luck. It evidently doesn’t lie in an uneven number.’

‘There are such slight intervals between your askings,’ said Lizzie, laughing. But she ceased to laugh when she found herself alone.

The honest, disinterested love of Hugh Norris was beginning to work its way into her heart, and heal the wounds made by the other’s defalcation. She would have liked to call him back and tell him that she would follow the dictates of her feelings, and give him his answer at once, without any regard to the dictum of the world; but womanly pride prevented her doing so. She was terribly afraid, also, of being deceived a second time. The scalded dog fears cold water, and though her sense told her that Hugh Norris’s character and disposition were utterly different from those of Henri de Courcelles, she dreaded making another mistake, and finding out, when too late, that they were unsuited to each other. His summary departure had the effect, however, of causing her a sleepless night, and as soon as the sun was up the following morning, she found her way to Mr Courtney’s office.

‘Well, Lizzie,’ said the planter kindly, ‘and so you wouldn’t join our festivities yesterday. It was a grand sight, though, and you would have enjoyed it; and I missed you several times during the breakfast, I can tell you.’

‘You have always been too kind to me, Mr Courtney; but you know my reasons for not being with you. No one wishes Quita health and happiness more than I do, and every sort of prosperity; but I was better at home. Besides, I don’t think I could have come, under any circumstances,’ continued Lizzie, smiling, ‘for do you know we had two new arrivals on the plantation yesterday? Chloe, the mulatto, and Aunt Jane, William Hall’s wife, both had daughters during the forenoon, and both are determined to call them “Maraquita,” in honour of the wedding. I did laugh so to see the two black woolly-headed little Maraquitas; but the proud mothers saw nothing incongruous in the idea.’

‘Naturally,’ replied Mr Courtney, joining in the smile. ‘And what is the plantation health report to-day?’

‘Very good! I have only two cases of fever left, and they are both convalescent. The negro boy, Dickey, broke his arm whilst climbing trees to see the fireworks last night—but it’s a simple fracture; and I have a few children down with infantile cholera, but nothing dangerous.’

‘That’s well. And can I do anything for you, Lizzie? Any orders wanted for medicines, or other necessaries?’

‘No, sir; I have everything I require. But I came up this morning chiefly to ask you a favour, Mr Courtney. I want you to tell me everything you may know concerning my father and his family.’

The planter pushed his chair back, and regarded her with surprise.

‘About your father’s family?’ he echoed. ‘But why should you imagine that I know more than yourself?’

‘Oh, you need attempt no concealment with me, sir. I appreciate the generosity of your motive, but my father himself has rendered it unnecessary. A few days before he was taken from us, he related to me the history of his life, and the reason why he lived a pensioner on your goodness at Beauregard, instead of taking his place in the world and society, like other men. Also that he passed under an assumed name, from fear of the law; but he did not tell me what my real name is, and I wish to know.’

‘But to what purpose, Lizzie? What good will it do?’

‘I have not even thought of that, sir; but if it brought evil in its train, I should still ask for the information. For since my father told me that Fellows is not my own name, I seem to have lost my individuality, and to be some one else. When I hear it spoken, I don’t feel as if I had the right to answer; and in fact, Mr Courtney, I beg of you to satisfy my curiosity in this particular.’

‘Well, Lizzie, you are a woman, and if you have made up your mind on this subject, you shall be gratified; but I would ask you to think again first. I don’t believe the information will make you happier. What is the use of belonging to a family who will not own you? Your poor father’s relations all turned against him, and will do the same by his daughter. It was that they might never have the power to insult him again, that he took the name of Fellows.’

‘So he told me, sir; and also of the crime he committed against you, and of the generosity with which you forgave it. I feel (and I told him so) that after that, my life and all I hold dearest in the world should be at your disposal; and I will sink my personality in the future, as I have done in the past, if you wish me to do so.’

‘No, no! my dear girl, I don’t consider I have any right to dictate to you on the subject; and since you desire to know your name, I will tell it you. You are Elizabeth Ruthin, the granddaughter of General Sir William and Lady Ruthin of Aberdare in Scotland. Your dear father’s name was Herbert Ruthin. He was the second son, the eldest, I believe, is in the army. He has already told you (you say) of the sad event which brought us together. He was my dearest friend in youth, and to the day of his death; but he was extravagant and thoughtless, and hardly thought of the gravity of the act he was committing.’

‘That is your kind way of putting it,’ said Lizzie. ‘My father did not exonerate himself after that fashion, sir. He saw his fault in its true light. But my mother’s name—what was that?’

‘Alice Stevens. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and a very sweet woman, I believe; but she died so early, that I saw but little of her. Have you any more questions to ask me, Lizzie?’

‘Only, have you any papers to prove what you tell me, Mr Courtney?’

‘What a practical young woman you are. Yes, I have. I loved your dear father with almost a romantic attachment, and I have kept all the letters that passed between us as young men, that is, when he was practically living at home on Sir William Ruthin’s estate of Aberdare, but going backward and forward to pursue his studies at Edinburgh. His frequent mention of his home life, and every one connected with it, is sufficient proof of his identity.’

‘And may I have those letters, sir?’

‘Certainly, if you wish it; and, now I come to think of it, they should be in your possession, in case of anything happening unexpectedly to me.’

Mr Courtney rose as he spoke, and unlocking an iron safe, placed a packet of letters, endorsed ‘Correspondence with my friend H. Ruthin,’ in her hand.

‘And now, Lizzie, what will you do with them?’ he added. ‘Shall you go post-haste to England by the next steamer, and lay claim to your father’s property?’

‘Oh, sir, don’t laugh at me! Remember that a felon’s daughter has no rights.’

‘Lizzie, you shall not use that term of your late father in my presence!’

‘It is what he called himself, sir,—what, doubtless, his people call him to this day, if ever they mention his name. Are my grandparents living, Mr Courtney?’

‘I believe so, my dear, and a very nice couple they were, though I have heard this trouble was an awful blow to their pride. Scotch pride too. There’s nothing like it. But Lady Ruthin loved her son Herbert dearly in the olden days. I wonder if she ever mourns for him now?’

‘Can time wear out a mother’s love?’ said Lizzie. ‘And my poor father was so loveable and affectionate. I cannot believe sometimes that he was capable of so base a sin as ingratitude.’

‘Don’t believe it, my dear! It is all over and past now. Think only of him as one of God’s regenerated children. And if he erred in that respect, his mantle has not fallen on his daughter, for you have repaid any kindnesses we may have shown you, twofold.’

‘I have tried to do so,’ replied Lizzie, in a faltering voice, as, with the packet of letters in her hand, she passed quickly from the office on her way home.

Chapter III

A few days later, Hugh Norris rushed unexpectedly into Lizzie’s presence.

‘I have come to wish you good-bye!’ he exclaimed, in a voice of distress. ‘I have received orders this morning which compel me to sail at once; and as the Trevelyan’s repairs are complete, I have no possible excuse for disobedience.’

Lizzie changed colour slightly as she heard the news, but she answered quietly,—

‘And I am sure that, under any circumstances, you would make none. Have you not often told me that a sailor’s first duty is towards his ship?’

‘Ah, yes; that is all very well in theory,’ he said, with a rueful look, ‘but you cannot know what I feel at leaving you alone, Lizzie, at this anxious time.’

‘I shall be safe enough, my dear friend, so have no fears for me. When do you sail?’

‘With the tide this evening, and hardly know how I shall get through all my work by that time. I didn’t expect to get off for another week.’

‘Then I mustn’t detain you, Captain Norris; though it was good of you to think of me at the last.’

‘Of whom else should I think? I shall not be away long this time, Lizzie. I only go to England and back. A couple of months may see me here again. What can I do for you there?’

‘Nothing, thanks. I have no commissions for you.’

‘Have you spoken to Mr Courtney yet on the subject of your family?’

Lizzie started.

‘Oh, yes; and that reminds me that I have some letters I want to show you. Wait a moment Captain Norris, whilst I fetch them—’

‘Missy Liz! Missy Liz!’ piped a shrill little voice at the open door.

‘What is it, Pete?’ she asked of a negro boy, whose dusky face was anxiously peering in upon them.

‘Oh, Missy Liz, please come quick to Mammy Chloe’s baby! That’s kinder sick; taken drefful, with its eyes turned up so, and its body quite stiff like a piece of wood!’

‘Convulsions!’ exclaimed Lizzie, as she threw the packet of letters she had just taken from her desk across the table, and put her hat upon her head. ‘Captain Norris, I must go. Read those whilst I am gone.’

‘But I cannot stay till you come back, Lizzie. Each moment is precious to me. Give me five minutes more.’

‘I dare not. This is a new-born infant, and a matter of life and death. God bless you, and good-bye!’

He had only time to wring her hand, when she darted from the house. He watched her figure running swiftly towards the negroes’ quarters, and then returned to the shaded apartment, with a deep sigh. What interest had he then in the packet of letters she had left him to peruse? Lizzie was gone. He should not see her again, perhaps for months, and the world seemed to be a blank without her. In the hope of her speedy return, he sat down for a few minutes more, and mechanically drew the letters towards him. But as his eye fell upon the written words his countenance changed, and his expression became one of the deepest interest. He hastily scanned through the letters, making sundry notes as he did so, and then, with a long low whistle, he tied the envelopes together again, and, laying them upon Lizzie’s desk, walked to the window to watch for some token of her return. None came. The Indian sun was blazing in all its splendour on the tropical leaves and flowers, the pathway to the coolies’ huts was one long line of white dust glittering like golden sand; but not a sound could be heard but the far-off hum of the workers in the cotton fields, not a living creature to be seen but Rosa in the shaded verandah, with Maraquita’s child slumbering on her knees, and an aged negro, long past work, who was warming his stiffened limbs in the sunshine. Hugh Norris watched impatiently for a few minutes from the open door, and then, with a rapid glance at his watch, and a deep sigh, he unwillingly prepared to leave the bungalow.

‘Be a good girl to your mistress, Rosa,’ he said, as he passed the yellow girl; ‘take great care of her and the baby, and I’ll bring you a beautiful string of beads when I come back from England.’

‘Tank you, sar,’ replied Rosa. ‘I’ll be berry good all time you away; and I’d like a nice shawl too, sar.’

‘Well, you’re not bashful, Rosa,’ replied Hugh Norris, laughing; ‘but you shall have the shawl too, if you’ll keep your promise. And if there should be any trouble on the plantation—you know what I mean—take Missy Lizzie up to the White House at once, and don’t mind what she says about staying here.’

‘I understand, sar; but nebber you fear. De niggers on dis plantation too good for dat. They lub Massa and Missus Courtney; and as for Missy Liz, they die for her—dat’s jes’ so.’

Captain Norris gave a sigh of relief.

‘I hope so, Rosa, and it makes me happier to hear you say it; but still I am not easy. But take this and buy yourself a new gown; and remember, when you wear it, that you have promised me to be faithful.’

He thrust a five-dollar note into her hand as he spoke, and with one yearning look in the direction of the negro quarters, walked rapidly away towards the town. Rosa rolled her eyes with delight at the feel of the five-dollar note.

‘He gone ’coon too,’ she thought, with a sapient air; ‘dar’s another what Missy Liz have done for. And she’s so quiet all de time. Dat’s what beats me. ’Pears as if she didn’t care if they was “gone” or not. Wall, if dey all gib me five-dollar notes, I wish there was a thousand of them.’

Meanwhile, Lizzie was kneeling down beside Mammy Chloe’s straw mattress, putting the poor little black baby into hot baths, and watching by it as tenderly as if it had been a princess of the blood royal, until the attack of convulsions had ceased, and it was sleeping peacefully on its mother’s breast again.

‘Dar now, dat’s jes’ wonderful!’ exclaimed the crowd of dusky mortals, who had anxiously watched her proceedings, ‘dat babby jes’ dyin’, ’pears as though death was in its face, and its body cold and stiff a’ready, and Missy Liz comes ’long and touches it, and it’s as well as ever in half an hour. Missy Liz, you too clever! You like de Lord, Who touches with little finger, and ebberybody well again. You jes’ white angel, Missy Liz—no mistake about dat.’

‘My dear friends, you make too much of my poor services for you. You could all do nearly as much for yourselves, if you would only let me teach you. Mammy Chloe made her baby sick. She says she gave it some sweet potato yesterday.’

‘Only tiny leetel bit, Missy Liz, out ob my own mouth!’ cried the mother.

‘However little it was, Chloe, it was too much for a baby of three days old. How often must I tell you to give your little infants nothing but the breast? Your baby is safe again now, but if you feed her with potatoes, and rice, and bread, she will have another fit, and next time I may be able to do nothing for her.’

Hereupon rose a chorus of dissentient voices.

‘Oh, Missy Liz, how you saying dat? You can cure ebberyting, Missy Liz. You mended Dicky’s arm, and cured old Jake’s rheumatiz, and bringed de life back to Clairey, when she fell into de water, and was dead.’

‘No, no!’ disclaimed Lizzie, laughing, ‘she wasn’t dead, Betsy. I can’t go as far as to bring the dead to life again.’

‘B’lieve you could, Missy Liz, if you tried, for you’se jes’ wonderful all round; and de niggers nebber had a better friend—dat’s so.’

‘Ay, Massa Courcelles say dat last night, Auntie Bell. He say Massa Courtney and de other planters dam bad trash, and better out ob de way; but nobody must hurt Missy Liz, because she’s de niggers’ friend, and lub ’em jes’ like herself.’

‘Monsieur de Courcelles!’ echoed Lizzie, thinking the negress had made some mistake. ‘How could he have said that last night? He is not in San Diego.’

‘Massa Courcelles not in San Diego?’ repeated the shrill voice of Betsy. ‘Oh, Missy Liz, who tell you dat ar lie? Massa Courcelles nebber leave de plantation yet. He’s living up at old Josh’s shanty, t’other side of de avenue, and he comes along of evenings, and talks to us all of our troubles.’

Lizzie’s brow flushed darkly. What could be the meaning of Henri de Courcelles hiding himself on Beauregard? For what reason was he hanging about the plantation, and mixing familiarly with the people whom he professed to abhor?

‘And what troubles have you that you can confide to a gentleman’s ears, Betsy?’ she demanded reprovingly. ‘Monsieur de Courcelles was not so kind to you whilst he was your overseer, that you should expect to find a friend in him now. There is some deeper meaning, I am afraid, in his pretended interest in you, than that of making your life more comfortable.’

‘You may well say that, Miss Lizzie!’ cried Jerusha, who was standing in the crowd, with her baby in her arms. ‘Dat man nebber sorry for nobody but himself. What he care if our work is hard, or our backs ache wid de sun, or our huts is dark, or de food common? Did he care when my back was bowed wid pain, and my head wid shame, and I couldn’t hardly stand upon my legs? Didn’t he strike me and my poor leetle boy, and say, “D—n you! Go hell! I make you work like a dog”?’

‘Hush, hush, Jerusha!’ exclaimed Lizzie, as she rose and placed her hand kindly on the shoulder of the excited coolie. ‘I know you have had your troubles, my poor girl. I know Monsieur de Courcelles has wronged you terribly, but you must try to be patient, and forgive, as—as—we all have to do sometimes.’

But Jerusha shook the compassionating touch off her.

‘No, Missy Liz,’ she said loudly, ‘I can’t forgive. If he had given me one kind word, I’se have worked for him to my last day, and been glad only to see him well and happy; but he’s bad all through, to de very core. He wrong more dan me. Ah, I know plenty tings people not thinking! and now he come and ’cite dese niggers to revenge demselves, and send all de planters out of de island, and keep de fields for dere own use. Dat his way of “paying out” somebody, Missy Liz. But I know him and his dark ways, and if dese people rise ’gainst de planters, Massa Courcelles shall be de first to go, if I kill him with my own hand.’

‘Rise!’ cried Lizzie indignantly. ‘Surely, after all the kindness they have experienced from Mr and Mrs Courtney, there is no one on this plantation so wicked as to dream of rising. What should they do it for? What more can they desire than they already possess? There are no hands on the island more looked after and cared for than those on Beauregard.’

‘I dunno dat,’ chimed in a discontented voice. ‘San Souci niggers gets a tot of rum ebery night, and a quarter of a pound more meat than we do.’

‘Who said that?’ exclaimed Lizzie quickly, turning round. ‘Ah, it was you, Aunt Sally! That’s a nice grateful thing to say, when you were down with fever three weeks this year, and received your wages all the same, though you couldn’t do a stroke of work. That’s the best return you can make, is it? And you know why the San Souci hands get extra rations well enough,—because the plantation is so near the swamp, and so unhealthy in consequence, that they are half their time down with fever and ague. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to set such a bad example to the others.’

‘I only repeating what Massa Courcelles say,’ replied Aunt Sally sulkily.

‘Then Monsieur de Courcelles should be ashamed of himself. I have no hesitation in saying it,’ continued Lizzie warmly. ‘I have been brought up amongst you all since I was a little child, and I am a witness to the kind and indulgent treatment you have received from your employers. Mr Courtney has never spared money or trouble to make his hands comfortable and happy, and if you have ever had any cause of complaint, it has been against this very man who is inciting you now to feel rebellious and ungrateful!’

‘De oberseer only act on de Massa’s orders,’ grumbled Aunt Sally again.

‘It is not true!’ cried Lizzie indignantly. ‘Mr Courtney never ordered Monsieur de Courcelles to do anything that was cruel or unjust. He left a great deal of power in his hands, because he believed him to be a good man, and worthy of his trust; but he found out his mistake, and that is why he has been sent away.’

‘Missy Liz speaks God’s truth,’ exclaimed Jerusha, ‘and you niggers know she do! What hasn’t dat man done to us? Didn’t he starve old Jakes for three days ’cause he not clean horse proper? and didn’t he strike Aunt Hannah ’cross de face with his whip, and make de ’sypelas come out? Didn’t he take me up to his bungalow, and tell me I lib dere all my life, and den kick me out like a dog ’cause I got a poor leetel baby? Haven’t you niggers said, times out of mind, you’d like to kill him for all he done, and that it was only ’cause Missy Liz like him dat he wasn’t dead long ago? If you says “No” now, den you’se all liars, and a lot of trash dat is afraid to stick to your own words.’

‘Jerusha is right,’ said Lizzie. ‘You were all afraid of Monsieur de Courcelles, and spoke against him, whilst he was your overseer; but now that he has no authority over you, you allow his specious tongue to lead your minds astray. My dear friends, be warned in time. Monsieur de Courcelles has no right to be on this plantation at all, and he only comes here for a bad purpose. You mustn’t listen to him. I am sorry to say it before you, but he is not a good man. I loved him once very dearly,’ continued Lizzie, with a great effort, and her cheeks dyed crimson, ‘and believed him to be all that was upright and honourable, but I found out I was wrong, as you will find out you are wrong, when it may be too late. Do you know that I have but to go to Mr Courtney, and inform him of the mutinous ideas you are openly expressing, to have you put into prison? And the new Governor is very strict, as you may have heard, and makes an example of all rebels. He is determined to crush the feeling of mutiny out of San Diego, whatever it may cost.’

‘Perhaps Gubnor get crushed hisself,’ suggested Betsy sullenly.

‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ cried Lizzie sharply. ‘What could a handful of coloured people do against the military forces? You would all be shot down and killed, before you knew where you were.’

She spoke boldly and decisively, but her heart was sinking all the while. If the negro population of the island rose en masse, the slaughter might be terrible before peace could be restored amongst them. She thought of her benefactors the Courtneys, of poor heedless Maraquita and the kind-hearted Governor,—a little too of herself, and shuddered. And Henri de Courcelles also. Would he not be overwhelmed by the storm he was taking such pains to raise? At all risks, she said to herself, she would see him, and warn him of the danger he ran in turning against his late employers.

‘Which of you has been listening to Monsieur de Courcelles’ inflammatory talk?’ she asked presently, as she looked round upon the women.

‘All of us,’ answered Aunt Sally. ‘He come down to our huts of evenings, and sit dere, and tell us how Massa Courtney treat him wuss den nigger, and how we’se free coloured people, and should stan’ no nonsense.’

‘He is worse than I thought him,’ said Lizzie. ‘He must stop it at once, or I shall inform Mr Courtney, and have him turned off the premises.’

‘Kill him, Missy Liz, kill him!’ hissed Jerusha, between her clenched teeth; ‘dat is de only way to crush de rattlesnake.’

‘Don’t speak like that, Jerusha. It is wicked, and you do not mean it.’

But the Indian girl did mean it all the same.

‘Where did you say that Monsieur de Courcelles was staying, Betsy?’ inquired Lizzie, a few moments after.

‘At Uncle Josh’s shanty, t’other side of avenue. He mayn’t be dere now, Missy Liz, but he sleeps dere ob nights.’

‘If de door would fasten, I’d set fire to dat rotten shanty, before anoder moon,’ remarked Jerusha.

‘Well, I must leave you now,’ said the Doctor’s daughter, with a deep sigh; ‘but remember what I say. The next time I hear any talk like this of to-day, I shall go straight to Mr Courtney, and ask him to dismiss the whole lot of you. Then you will starve without any work to do, and will be sorry you left your comfortable huts, and kind employers, at the instigation of a villain.’

‘Massa Courtney starve too when he got no coolies to pick cotton and rice for him,’ muttered some one in the crowd.

Lizzie saw plainly that the disaffection had spread too effectually to be quenched by her single arguments, and so she left them, and, wrapped in thought, walked leisurely away from the coolie quarters. Her first step, she felt, must be to see Henri de Courcelles, and with that intention she directed her feet towards Uncle Josh’s shanty, which stood somewhat apart from the rest. The sun was now high in the heavens, and no European was abroad who could rest at home. Lizzie’s broad-brimmed hat and white umbrella sheltered her sufficiently in the shady plantation, but she would not have ventured out, except at the call of duty, at so late an hour in the morning, and so she firmly calculated on finding Monsieur de Courcelles within the hut. She was not disappointed. Old Uncle Josh, who was an aged negro almost past work, and only kept to do light jobs about the garden and stables, came to the door with much caution to answer Lizzie’s knock for admittance, and was about to declare that he knew nothing of Monsieur de Courcelles, when a voice from within called out to him to admit the lady, and not make a d—d fool of himself. So Lizzie passed in, and found herself face to face with the man she had believed to be hundreds of miles away.

‘Monsieur,’ she commenced hurriedly, ‘I should not be here, except that I have something of the utmost importance to say to you. You must send this man away, so that he may not hear us.’

‘Go up to the plantation, Uncle Josh, or anywhere you like, and don’t come back for an hour,’ said De Courcelles, in a voice of authority; and the old negro nodded in acquiescence, and shambled off.

‘Are you sure he is safe?’ demanded Lizzie, as the man disappeared.

‘Safe as death! I have him under my thumb,’ was the confident reply. ‘And now, what can you have to say to me, Lizzie? After our last parting, I hardly expected you would seek me out of your own accord.’

‘Neither should I have done so, except that the welfare of those I love more than myself is at stake. Monsieur, why are you still on the plantation of Beauregard?’

‘I think that is my business sooner than yours.’

‘Indeed it is my business,—the business of every one who regards the Courtneys as benefactors. Your presence here can be for no good purpose. It spells ruin and devastation for them. By your false arguments you are inciting these ignorant coloured people to rebel; you are making them discontented—not to say bloodthirsty; and the upshot of your evil counsel will be a mutiny, that will involve their own downfall with those of their employers, and, perhaps, lead to murder and rapine.’

‘And what do I care if it does? It will be no more than they deserve.’

‘Oh, Henri, you cannot think what you are saying! Surely you would never be so wicked! What have the Courtneys done to make you so revengeful? They were always the kindest of patrons to you, until this unhappy business occurred with Maraquita. And even to the last they were both just and generous. How can you find it in your heart to injure them?’

‘They are Maraquita’s parents,’ he answered gloomily.

‘And would you avenge her falsehood—her broken faith—upon them? Monsieur, that is not like yourself! It is unworthy of any one calling himself a man.’

‘What right had they to turn me off Beauregard, then? It was only done to shield her, because they suspect the truth, and are afraid I might prove a dangerous rival. She marries the Governor of San Diego, and is lapped in luxury and comfort, whilst I (who am morally her husband) am sent adrift, like a rudderless boat, to toss anywhere on the sea of life. But I’ll be even with her yet, and her bald-headed old ape of a partner too.’

‘Henri, you must not speak like that,’ said Lizzie firmly. ‘I feel for your disappointment—indeed I do; it must be a bitterly hard one; but to try and revenge yourself in this manner is a cowardly and wicked thing. The feeling of disaffection is rife enough in the island, without your adding to it. I beg—I pray of you to leave the plantation, and not return. You have no right here, and if you remain, I shall consider it my duty to inform Mr Courtney; and you know how painful it would be for me to say anything to him against you. Henri, for the sake of old times, do as I ask you.’

‘You are a good woman, Lizzie—I have always maintained that—and, if you wish it, I will go. But, mind you, my departure will not stop the rising mutiny, any more than my remaining here hatched it into life. The native population is ripe for rebellion, and it is only now a question of weeks—perhaps days—before they burst into open revolt. I am glad I have seen you, to warn you against it. The coolies will not harm you, I am sure—they love and reverence you too much—but they may frighten you, and I should wish to prevent even that. But as for the rest—well! I shall not be satisfied till I see the White House and Government House in ashes, and their owners weltering in their blood!’

The expression of his face was so murderous as he spoke, that Lizzie fairly screamed,—

‘Oh, Henri, Henri, surely you are not in earnest! You would never countenance nor encourage so horrible an idea! You would save those who have been good to you—whom you once believed you loved—at the risk of your own life! Tell me it is the truth, for I will never leave you till you acknowledge it.’

Henri de Courcelles seized her two hands in a grip of iron, and drew her towards him, until their faces nearly touched each other.

‘Lizzie Fellows,’ he exclaimed roughly, to hide his emotion, ‘if I could have gone on loving you, if that heartless jade had not come between us with her mock innocence and her fatal beauty and blinded my eyes to your superior virtues, I should have been a happier and better man to-day. But now, I know it is too late. You have ceased to love me, and I shall never again be able to lay any claim to your hand.’

‘But I have not ceased to care if you are a good man or a bad one, Henri,’ she answered, through her tears; ‘and I entreat you now, by your memory of the past, to do what I ask you, and leave Beauregard.’

‘I will, because you ask me; but, as I have already told you, it will not make the difference you imagine. I could no more stay the progress of this mutiny now, than I could single-handed quench the fire of a burning city. It has gone too far for that. Besides, I have no desire to do so. My heart thirsts for revenge, and I shall only quit Beauregard to join another set of rebels, and perhaps a more dangerous one.’

‘Henri, cannot I persuade you to give up that madness also?’

‘No, Lizzie, the time is past. Maraquita’s falsehood has made me reckless, and I only live now to one end,—to see her punished as she deserves.’

‘Leave her to Heaven, Henri. Do you think her infidelity will not be its own punishment? How many nights will she lie awake, poor child, wanting your love, wanting mine, which used, at one time, to make all her happiness? How often will her heart yearn—for Quita has a heart, Henri, though it is choked up with vanity and love of self—for the days she spent with us,—for the poor little innocent she has left behind her? Ah, neither you nor I can measure the pain which remorse will bring her!’

‘Don’t you believe it. You judge her by yourself, and your sex is the only likeness between you. She is all bad, Lizzie, false from head to foot, and the sooner the world is rid of her, the better.’

‘And are you the one who should be her judge?’ replied Lizzie mournfully; ‘can you bring clean hands into court, Henri, with which to condemn her? No, I am not alluding to myself. It was not your fault, perhaps, if you found upon a closer acquaintance that you could not love me as you once imagined; but what of Jerusha—the poor little coolie girl with whom you were carrying on a pretension of affection at the same time that you were deceiving Maraquita? How can you find it in your heart to contemplate revenge on her for an error of which you were guilty yourself?’

‘You women don’t understand these things, Lizzie. No one but a little fool like Jerusha would have believed for a moment that I was in earnest, or that such an irregular business could possibly last more than a few months.’

‘Yet Jerusha vows to have her revenge on you, as warmly as you do to have yours on Maraquita.’

At this piece of intelligence, Henri de Courcelles changed colour.

‘If that is the case, your advice has not come too soon. These coolies are the very devil to stick to an idea if they once get it in their head, and I shall wake up some night, perhaps, to find Miss Jerusha’s fingers at my throat, if I don’t clear out. Curse the little jade! She’s been more trouble to me than she’s worth.’

‘And may be the occasion of more yet,’ replied Lizzie, who saw the way, by taking advantage of his fear, to make him hold to his purpose. ‘She is dead set against you, Henri—I am witness to that—and constantly speaking of her wrongs to the rest. She swears she will have your life some way or other; and for that reason only, I think it would be much wiser of you to leave the plantation. She is quite capable indeed of betraying you to Mr Courtney; and such a proceeding might lead to your arrest, on a suspicion of felonious purposes. Now, do you see the danger you are in?’

‘Indeed I do, and I shall not sleep another night on Beauregard: you may take my word for that. Indeed, when I come to think of it, I cannot imagine how I can have been such a fool as to run the risk for so long. There are plenty of places in San Diego where I can be safer, and bide my time for my revenge.’

‘Do more, whilst you are about it, Henri. Leave San Diego altogether, and your idea of revenge behind you. It will never make you any happier, and it may cast a haunting regret over all your future. And you are still young. There is perhaps a happy life looming for you in the distance, if you will try and forget the failure of your youth.’

‘No, Lizzie; you speak to deaf ears. I will fulfil your wish, and leave this place. Be satisfied with that, and when I am gone, forget all about me. I was never worthy to kiss even the hem of your garment, and my darkest shame will ever be that I permitted you to waste a single thought upon me. Goodbye, my dear. Don’t stay here any longer, for your presence, and the memories it brings with it, unman and make a coward of me. By this time to-morrow I shall have left Beauregard for ever.’

‘Thank Heaven for that,’ replied Lizzie, as she obeyed his request, and left the hut.

Her mind was not wholly at ease concerning him, because she saw that he was doggedly bent upon having his own way; but she had, at all events, succeeded in scaring him off the property of her benefactors, and trusted that when his evil influence was removed from them, the hands of Beauregard would return to their former condition of obedience and contentment.

Chapter IV

Lizzie had guessed correctly when she said that Maraquita’s infidelity would prove its own punishment. The honeymoon at Santa Lucia was not a very satisfactory one, at least for the bride. So long as the day endured, and Quita’s frivolous soul could be gorged on flattery, and the servile congratulations paid her by her husband’s guests, she was contented with her lot, and disposed to believe it would turn out all she had prognosticated for herself. To feel she was the woman of most importance in the island, and that she had horses and carriages, and servants at her command, and that a military guard accompanied her wherever she went, and everybody turned to gaze after her, and said to one another, ‘There goes the Governor’s bride,’ was quite sufficient to inflate her foolish little heart with pride, and make her forget, for the time being, the penalty attached to it all. But one cannot pass one’s entire life in public, and when the hours of domestic happiness arrived, they were very trying. Then, if she had had a handsome young husband suited to herself in age and disposition waiting on her every look and smile while he whispered words of love in her ear, how delighted would Maraquita have been to fly to the sacred recesses of her own apartments, and shut the world and its hollow compliments outside. But now such moments became torture. Sir Russell had been sufficiently trying as a lover, but as a husband he became simply unendurable. His middle-aged ecstasies over his new possession, his fussy attentions, his twaddling conversation about things and people of which she had never heard, soon bored his young wife to extinction. And he was not slow to find out that he did not interest her. He noted the vacant look, the wandering attention, the deep sighs that occasionally interrupted their intercourse, and commenced to feel the first twinges of jealousy, and to wonder if there had been any other admirer in the background whom Lady Johnstone had not entirely forgotten.

If he could only have read her thoughts as she sat by his side when they were alone together, or lay for hours during the silent watches of the night gazing open-eyed at the dark blue heaven with its myriad clusters of stars, how unpleasantly satisfied he would have been. It was at those times that the newly-made Lady Johnstone’s thoughts returned to the past which she had so pertinaciously thrust from her, and that she longed (with the contradiction of human nature) to be able to take back again to her heart the fate which she had held in her hand, without the moral courage to grasp it. It was then that the glorious dark eyes of Henri de Courcelles seemed to gaze into her own like twin stars, just as they used to look at those heavenly moments when they sat together on the bench in the Oleander Thicket, and her lover’s arms were folded closely round her, as though to shield her from all harm.

Henri de Courcelles had innumerable faults, but he had loved this girl with all his heart, and, now that it was too late, Maraquita seemed to realise it for the first time. There was another regret, too, that intruded itself into her married life, a regret that seemed to grow with the days, and assume such inconceivable proportions that she was tempted to cry out that she could bear it no longer, but must at all risks rush back to San Diego and see her child. Sometimes the unhappy young mother would dream that the infant was dying, and wake up with the tears upon her cheek; sometimes that it really belonged to Lizzie, and she had lost the right to call it hers; and sometimes that she held it to her heart, and was proud and fond of it like other mothers, until she discovered it was a poisonous asp, stinging the bosom on which it lay. Such thoughts and dreams were not good for the young bride to indulge in, and she grew paler and thinner every day. Sir Russell called in a doctor, who declared Lady Johnstone’s condition to be due to weakness, consequent on her late attack of fever, and advised her immediate return to San Diego, as possessing a higher and more bracing air than Santa Lucia. Sir Russell sought his wife’s rooms, all fuss and anxiety on account of her low spirits, and communicated the medical man’s opinion to her. They had been married now for three weeks, and the Governor had already come to the conclusion that a domestic life was not all roses. He found his beautiful Maraquita rather petulant at times, and disposed to have her own way. She was not very affectionate either, and flouted his attempts at love-making in a manner sufficient to cure the most ardent lover. He was disappointed certainly; he had imagined women were more open to their husbands’ advances; but, after all, he knew very little about the sex, and was quite ready, as yet, to lay the failure at his own door. He was not fit, he told himself, to be the companion of such an innocent, guileless creature; she felt the difference between his society and that she had left behind her. The position was new and strange to her. She would be her own sweet self again when they returned to San Diego and she was restored to her parents’ arms. The alacrity with which Maraquita assented to his proposal to go home, confirmed his sentiments upon the subject. It would have been somewhat of a shock to him could he have read her thoughts on the occasion; but how few of us could afford to read the mind of our dearest friend, without fear. Maraquita’s face glowed, and her heart beat faster, as she pictured herself settled at Government House. She would have a chance then of seeing Lizzie again—perhaps of seeing Henri de Courcelles. Whilst it lay in his power to deprive her of her promised dignity, she had dreaded his presence, and hoped he was far away from San Diego; but now that her position as Lady Johnstone was secure, and no one could dethrone her, she began to crave for the excitement of seeing her lover again. Weak and vacillating as she had been as Maraquita Courtney, she was even worse as Lady Johnstone, for now her weakness threatened to become a crime. Her depression of spirits and her feverish anxiety were so patent, that the first time Mrs Courtney was alone with her daughter, she taxed her with the change.

‘Whatever is the matter with you, my dear child?’ she exclaimed; ‘you don’t seem half so happy as I expected to see you. Here you are, the Governor’s wife, and the lady of highest rank in San Diego, and yet you seem quite melancholy. You don’t mean to tell me that you are disappointed, or that your marriage has not proved all you expected it to be?’

‘Oh, no, mamma! I suppose it’s all right! I’ve got the position and the money, and no one can have been such a fool as to think I married a bald-headed stupid old man like Sir Russell for anything else.’

Mrs Courtney lifted her hands and eyebrows in surprise.

‘My dear! my dear! remember he’s the Governor!’

‘How can I forget it? Isn’t it dinned into my ears from sunrise to sunset! Of course he’s the Governor! I am sure he need be, for he’s very little else! But I’m afraid that fact is not sufficient for one’s happiness.’

‘My darling, what more can you possibly want? A splendid house, and number of servants, equipages, and horses, jewels, dresses, ornaments, and the whole island at your feet! Why, I think you are the luckiest girl I ever heard of.’

But her eloquence was interrupted by Maraquita flinging herself headlong on a couch, and sobbing out,—

‘I’m not! I’m not! I’m as unhappy as I can be! I wish I had never consented to give up my poor Henri! I dream of him every night!’

But at that confession, her mother’s attempt at consolation changed to righteous scorn.

‘Then you must be the wickedest girl alive, Maraquita! Dreaming of any man but your husband, and not married a month yet! You ought to be ashamed to mention such a thing, even to your mother! And that wretched low-born overseer too—a half-caste Spaniard, with neither birth nor money. I am utterly surprised at you!’

‘Mamma, you sha’n’t abuse him! He may be everything you say, but he’s gloriously handsome; and he loved me, and I ought to have married him! Why didn’t you manage it some way? You knew all about us, and you could have persuaded papa to settle something on him, and let us live with you at Beauregard, and then it would have been all right, and I should have been much happier there with him and my poor little baby—’

‘Maraquita! are you mad?’ cried her mother, clapping her hand before her daughter’s mouth; ‘or do you want every official in Government House to hear your shameful secret? Good heavens, it is enough to make me regret I ever interfered to save you from your own folly! If you confess the truth now, you will make matters a thousand times worse than if you had made the low marriage you seem to hanker after. It would be a nice scandal for the island, to hear that the Governor had repudiated you on account of your former light conduct! Then you would lose everything—reputation, position, and wealth, and gain nothing in exchange.’

‘I could go to Henri,’ said Maraquita doggedly, for she possessed one of those persistent natures that can work themselves up into a belief, and she was working herself up to believe that she was still passionately in love with De Courcelles, and ready to sacrifice everything for him.

‘That you certainly could not,’ returned Mrs Courtney, determined to cut her folly in the bud, ‘for he is not in San Diego.’

‘Where is he then?’ exclaimed Quita, raising herself from the sofa cushion.

‘He has gone to America,’ replied her mother, ignoring her regard for truth so long as she drove this nonsense out of Maraquita’s mind.

‘To America!’ repeated the girl. ‘Oh, why did he go there? What is he going to do?’

‘That is his business, not ours; but I believe his family live in the States. However, he will never return to San Diego, and so you see how little you will gain, and how much you may lose, by indulging in this sentimental folly. Indeed, I cannot understand you, Quita! Your one desire last month was to hear that this most objectionable young man had left the island, and now you are moaning after him as if he had been your dearest friend instead of your worst enemy.’

‘He loved me!’ sobbed Maraquita.

‘I don’t think he did love you,’ rejoined Mrs Courtney. ‘No man who loved you would have treated you in so dishonourable a manner. However, he has been ready enough to run away from you, and now the best thing you can do is to forget all about him. Indeed, you must compel yourself to do so, my dear. You owe it not only to your husband, but to your father and mother. And just think what a wicked thing you are doing too—crying after another man when you are Sir Russell’s wife. You horrify and grieve me beyond measure!’

Yes, Mrs Courtney was perfectly right!

It was both weak and wicked of Lady Johnstone to let old memories obtrude themselves upon her wedded life, but she had been far weaker and wickeder when she gave them up against her inclination. An eligible marriage is no cure for an ill-placed love, and the laws neither of God nor man have any power to quench passion in the human heart. They may help the victim to keep it under, but it is the one feeling that refuses to be silent until it has died a natural death. Whilst poor faulty Maraquita believed that Henri de Courcelles was lying in ambush somewhere ready to appear before her at any moment, holding the pledge of their love in his arms, as he did upon her wedding-day, she had had a great fear mingled with her insane desire to see him again; but now that her mother assured her he had left San Diego for ever, and she should never be able to ask his forgiveness, her dread of him vanished, to give place to a morbid regret. She wept so much and ate so little during the first days of her installation at Government House, that Mrs Courtney (who had been invited by Sir Russell to stay with her daughter) became quite seriously alarmed for the consequences of her grief, and tried all she could to rouse her by a description of the splendid preparations which were being made for the ball to be given in honour of their return.

‘My dear girl, I never saw anything like it! Sir Russell is certainly the most generous of men, and the whole island is talking of him. He has given a carte blanche order for all the white flowers procurable, and the ballroom will be decorated with nothing else. It will look like a huge bridal bouquet.’

‘Or a funeral shroud,’ suggested Quita, with a disagreeable laugh.

‘My darling! what a strange thing to say. We won’t have it too white, if you have such unpleasant comparisons to make. I will suggest to Sir Russell to have the wreaths tied with blue ribbons; or pink roses interspersed with the white ones, would look very pretty.’

‘I’m sure I shouldn’t take the trouble, if I were you, mamma! Let him have his own way. What does it signify what it looks like?’

‘I think it signifies a great deal,’ returned Mrs Courtney warmly; ‘and when I come to consider the matter, white will not set off the dresses as a little colour would do. For most of the ladies will be in white; and you will wear your wedding-dress, of course, Maraquita.’

‘I suppose so, mamma.’

‘You will have to open the ball with Colonel Symonds, being the next gentleman in rank to the Governor on the island, and Sir Russell must lead out Mrs Symonds. It will be a magnificent sight, with all the officers in full uniform, and the military bands in the orchestra. The supper-tables are to be laid for three hundred, though I don’t know where they are all to come from; but Sir Russell is so generous. It will be the proudest day of my life—next to your wedding-day, Maraquita.’

‘I shall be very glad if you enjoy it, mamma.’

‘Come, come, my dear girl, I won’t have you speak of it in that uninterested tone, as if you were an old woman of eighty, past all thoughts of dancing and admiration. Why, there’s not a girl in the island that dances better than you do, Quita; and think how every eye will be fixed upon you, and how the women will envy your dress and your beautiful jewels, and wish they had your luck. Why, there’s not a girl in San Diego but would give her eyes to stand in your shoes.’

‘I daresay! but they pinch sometimes,’ said Quita, with a yawn.

‘My darling, all wives’ shoes pinch sometimes,’ replied her mother. ‘Marriage is not a bed of roses, any more than any other condition. But it is necessary to a woman’s well-doing, and you have drawn a splendid prize in the matrimonial lottery. And now what time will your ladyship please to drive this afternoon?’

Quita smiled. She liked to be called ‘your ladyship.’ If there was one thing above another that reconciled her to the step she had taken, it was to hear herself addressed by that much-coveted title. What children most women are, after all, and how easily caught with glittering baubles. Jewels and a title make up the sum total of domestic happiness for the majority of the sex. Maraquita believed herself to be wretched for the loss of Henri de Courcelles, but had she been put to the test, she would not have given up her newly-acquired dignity, nor one of her sets of ornaments, to bring him to her feet again. She would sit for hours with her jewel cases in her lap, fingering the bracelets, and rings, and necklaces that Sir Russell had given her, and holding up the blood-red rubies, and the grass-green emeralds, and the deep blue sapphires, and the pure white diamonds to the light, laughing to see them catch the sun’s rays, and shoot out a thousand little stars of fire to meet them. And as the day for the grand ball drew near, she seemed to recover her cheerfulness. Mrs Courtney was delighted to see the interest she suddenly evinced about her dress, and the ornaments she was to wear with it, and the manner in which she should arrange her hair; and when the evening arrived, she was as flushed with excitement, and as eager for the festivities to be a success, as any one could have wished to see her. It was a proud moment for Mr and Mrs Courtney when they stood by the side of the dais which had been erected for the convenience of the newly-married pair to receive their numerous guests. Sir Russell, in his Governor’s uniform, looked imposing if not handsome; and Maraquita, arrayed in her wedding garments, stood by his side like a dainty fairy. All San Diego—that is, all the respectable portion of it—passed before them in single file, to offer their congratulations before the ball commenced, and there was but one opinion of the appearance of the bride—that she was the handsomest woman on the island. Mr and Mrs Courtney swelled with pride as they overheard the various comments on her appearance, and felt rewarded at last for all the trouble and anxiety their wayward daughter had given them. The ballroom at Government House was a long apartment, with five or six windows on either side, all open on account of the heat. The spaces between these windows were hidden with trophies of flags, and flowers, so that it looked like a vast bower of leaves and blossoms, open at intervals to the outer air. Six large chandeliers pendant from the ceiling, and laden with wax candles, made the ballroom a blaze of light, and rendered it a conspicuous object from the outside. That the poorer part of the population should not consider themselves entirely shut out from the wedding festivities, Sir Russell had ordered a handsome display of fireworks to be sent up from the Fort at ten o’clock, and hundreds of coloured people were waiting around, in anticipation of the display. The supper, which had taken many days to prepare, was laid in another room on the same floor, on a series of tables, which were glittering with knives, and forks, and glass, and silver; and everything promised to go as merrily as the proverbial marriage bell. As soon as they had received their guests, Sir Russell and Lady Johnstone opened the ball with the two people of highest rank present, and dancing became general.

Maraquita, who was passionately fond of the exercise, did not miss a single turn. Her card was naturally soon filled up, for every man present tried to secure a waltz with the bride, and she flew all over the room like a beautiful Bacchante, flushed and smiling, whilst her parents looked on with admiring complacency, and one at least thanked Heaven secretly that the threatened danger was at an end, and her child had begun at last to properly appreciate the benefits of her high position. The evening had waxed towards midnight, and though the dancers gave no signs of fatigue, Sir Russell had just made his way towards Mr and Mrs Courtney to consult them whether it would not be wise to give the signal for supper, when a loud cry of alarm and sounds of confusion were heard to proceed from the apartment where it was laid. Sir Russell turned pale. He had heard something of the sort before, and guessed its import; but he had no time to communicate his fears to his friends, when a crowd of natives rushed into the room, armed with pistols and knives, and every open window was simultaneously blocked with dusky faces, ready to bar all egress, or to leap inside at a moment’s notice. The band stopped playing at once—the dancers screamed with alarm—all the men felt their hearts stop, and many of the women fainted without warning. But Sir Russell was English bred, and rose to the occasion at once. He looked almost majestic as he met the oncoming horde of mutineers with an uplifted hand, as though he challenged them to advance one step further, and demanded in a voice of thunder what they required in his private apartments.

‘Your life!’ shrieked one of the mob, ‘and de lives ob all dese d—d white trash. And we’ll hab them too! On wid you, darkies! Cut ’em down like de dogs what dey are.’

‘I’ll shoot the first man who tries to pass me!’ shouted Sir Russell, as he drew a revolver from his pocket; and then turning to his father-in-law, he exclaimed quickly,—‘Mrs Courtney—Maraquita, get them away, for God’s sake!’

Maraquita had already flown to her parents for protection, and was clinging to her mother in an agony of tears.

‘Mamma! mamma! what will they do to us? Oh, we shall all be killed! Why did I ever leave Beauregard!’

‘Hush! hush! my darling! it will be all right. There must be some mistake,’ replied her mother, although she was shaking so violently that she could hardly stand.

But if it was a mistake, it was a very terrible one, for the next moment the sound of several shots, and a piercing scream, proved that the rebels had already commenced their murderous work.

‘This way, Nita,’ said Mr Courtney hurriedly, pushing his wife and daughter before him. ‘Keep close to the wall, and escape by the door into the library. It is your best chance.’

But before they had gone many paces, elbowing their way frantically through the crowd that pressed on them from every side, the dark faces that had guarded the open windows perceived their means of exit, and with a cry of fiendish delight, leapt into the room to prevent it.

‘We are lost!’ cried Mrs Courtney. ‘Oh, Mr Courtney, in Heaven’s name, what are we to do?’

‘Stand before Quita. Conceal her at all risks, and I will help you,’ replied the father, as he ranged himself by the side of his trembling wife, and in front of his daughter; and then he whispered, ‘Have no fear, Nita; they can have no object in wounding us. Their malice is against Sir Russell and our poor child. Spread your skirts over her, for Heaven’s sake.’

Meanwhile the slaughter became general. The rebels rushed hither and thither in search of Maraquita, wounding or killing every girl they thought to be the bride, with, in most instances, the men who resented the murder, until the ballroom reeked with blood, and the screams of the unhappy victims were appalling. But the alarm had been given at once, and in a few minutes the opposition shots of the military forces were heard, and scores of the rebels bit the dust, whilst many more were taken prisoners. Amongst the latter was a young and handsome Spanish half-caste, whose dark eyes were on fire with the lust for revenge, but who made no effort to free himself from his captors.

‘The danger is past! Thank God that you are both safe!’ exclaimed Mr Courtney, as he turned to embrace his wife and daughter.

Sir Russell had been wounded in the wrist by a slash from one of his own dinner knives; but the Fort physician had bound it up, and, now that the first alarm was over, he was able to go in search of his bride.

‘Maraquita, my dearest!’ he exclaimed fervently, as he saw the pale little figure which Mr Courtney was supporting, ‘this is a terrible affair, but, thank God, the brutes have not injured you, nor your parents! You must come away from here at once, my love. Take her, Mr Courtney, I beg of you, to her own apartments. This is no sight for her.’

Quita closed her eyes, and shuddered as her glance fell on the prostrate corpses, both black and white, that lay on the ballroom floor, and heard the moans of those to whom the surgeon was already attending; and she was quite willing to go away with her parents, and try and forget the terrible business in sleep.

‘Yes, yes,’ she murmured, clinging to her father; ‘take me away at once, papa—I cannot bear it.’

But when she had advanced a few paces into the room, her eyes opened again from sheer horror, and fell on a sight which paralysed her. There, standing before her, though held back by the pinioning arms of his captors, was Henri de Courcelles, whom she believed to be in America, with such hatred and fury in his glance as she had never seen before.

‘Henri!’ she shrieked involuntarily, before she could prevent herself.

‘So you have escaped!—curse you?’ he answered, glaring at her like a fiend. ‘Then what am I doing here? I must be free, to live to avenge myself on you.’ And without another word, and a sudden effort that took the men who held him completely by surprise, Henri de Courcelles wrenched himself away, and rushed to the open window, leapt into the darkness and was gone.

‘He must have killed himself!’ exclaimed one of the soldiers, looking out upon the night. ‘There is a fall here of about twenty feet.’

‘Order the guard round to take him prisoner!’ shouted Sir Russell. ‘The wall beneath the window is sixteen feet high. They will take him like a rat in a trap. And if not, tell them to shoot him like a dog.’

‘No, no!’ cried Maraquita wildly. ‘They must not—they shall not—he—he—’

But there she fainted, and fell in a heap at her husband’s feet.

‘He is the ringleader of the whole mutiny,—the greatest rascal of them all! What can she know of him?’ demanded Sir Russell, with a frown.

‘Nothing; she never saw him before,’ replied Mrs Courtney boldly, though she was shaking with fear lest Maraquita should betray herself.

‘But she called him “Henri.” I heard her,’ said the Governor.

‘He was a servant on Beauregard once, Sir Russell. I forgot that when I said Maraquita had never seen him. But really this terrible business has shaken me so that I don’t know what I’m saying. But my poor darling must be carried to her room. She is not fit to walk. I hope this shocking affair may not unsettle her reason.’

‘It seems as if it had done so already, when one hears her pleading for the life of a murderer,’ said Sir Russell, as he assisted Mrs Courtney to carry the unconscious girl to her own apartments. ‘And now, Mrs Courtney, I will leave my wife in your charge. This is a very serious matter, and may necessitate my sitting up all night. The rebellion is quelled for the moment, but I must not rest until measures have been taken to prevent its recurrence. My guests murdered before my very eyes! It is incredible that such a thing should happen in Her Majesty’s dominions. And we must crush the mutiny, if we string them all up to the Fort gates. And this ringleader, this old servant (as you say) of yours, shall be the first to suffer. I will give him lynch law as soon as ever the dawn rises. I will teach him what the penalty is of addressing the Governor’s wife as he has dared to do.’

And with this threat upon his lips, Sir Russell stalked gloomily away.

Chapter V

As soon as the Governor had disappeared, Mrs Courtney tried hard to get her husband out of the room; but he was obstinately bent on remaining until his daughter had recovered her consciousness, and so, when Maraquita opened her eyes, both her father and mother were bending over her.

‘Where am I?’ she exclaimed, as the world broke indistinctly upon her again.

‘In your own room, my darling. Lie down, Quita. Don’t attempt to rise. You are quite safe. No one can hurt you here.’

‘Safe!’ repeated the girl, in a bewildered tone. ‘Ah, I remember now! The ballroom—the blood—those dreadful cries! Oh, mamma, mamma,’ she continued, clinging to her mother, ‘I shall never forget it! And Julie Latreille too. I saw her murdered at my side. It is too, too horrible!’

‘No, no, my dearest. You are mistaken. Julie is not dead. She was wounded, and they have taken her to the hospital. But don’t think of it any more to-night. Let me undress you, that you may try and get some sleep.’

‘Not think of it!’ said Maraquita, with staring bloodshot eyes, as she sat up on the couch in her white lace dress, all crumpled and spattered with blood, ‘not think of it. Why, I shall never cease to think of it. And there was something else too. What was it? Ah, Henri! and he cursed me!’

‘Mr Courtney, I must request you to leave us!’ exclaimed his wife hurriedly. ‘You see the excitable condition she is in, and I can do nothing with her whilst you are hanging over her like this. The less people she has with her the better! You must positively go, and leave her to Jessica and me.’

‘Well, my dear, if you think it necessary, of course I will go; but you will lose no time, I hope, in getting the poor child into bed.’

‘Do you suppose I don’t know what is best for her, Mr Courtney? I am only waiting till you are gone, to undress her.’

‘And you will send me word how she goes on—I shall not retire till I hear she has recovered her composure, and is in a fair way to sleep.’

‘I will send Jessica to you in half an hour. By that time, I hope we shall both have somewhat overcome this terrible shock. I shall stay with her all night, and you had better go and tell Sir Russell so.’

And Mrs Courtney, who had been carrying on this colloquy just inside the bedroom door, opened it, and gently pushing her husband into the passage, reclosed and locked it, with a sigh of relief.

‘Thank Heaven!’ she said to old Jessica, ‘we are safe! I trembled for what she might say next.’

‘Allays dat cussed oberseer,’ observed the old negress, who stood by Quita’s head.

The girl herself was still sitting up on the couch when her mother returned to her, staring into vacancy, and repeating the word ‘Henri’ in a low voice.

‘Maraquita!’ said Mrs Courtney firmly, as she shook the girl to rouse her to a sense of her position, ‘who are you talking to? There is no one here! You are quite alone with Jessica and me. You are perfectly safe. All the danger is over, and Government House is guarded by the soldiery on every side. Come to bed now, like a good child, and try to sleep.’

‘But he—where is he?’ asked Maraquita wildly. ‘Did they fire on him? Is he hurt?’

‘Sir Russell, my darling? Well, nothing to signify! The brutes slashed at him with their knives, and caught him on the wrist, but the doctor says it will be all right again in a few days, and he will come and see you by-and-by, dear.’

‘Not him! I don’t want him!’ returned Maraquita fretfully, ‘but Henri—where is my Henri? He jumped out of the window, and Sir Russell ordered them to kill him. Oh, tell me, in Heaven’s name, is he dead?’

Mrs Courtney did not know what to answer, but Jessica was ready with the information.

‘No, Missy Quita, he not dead. Governor’s Sambo tell me all de news just now. De guard go after him, and take him prisoner, and shut him up in Fort cell, where he can’t come out. And so my missy quite safe, and can go to sleep comfortable.’

‘There, my darling, you hear what old Jessica says,’ interposed Mrs Courtney soothingly. ‘They have got him in prison. It was like his insolence to speak to you as he did; but you have given him so much encouragement, that the creature is beside himself. But he has overleapt the mark this time, and will never trouble you again.’

‘Will they—kill him?’ said Quita, with a shiver.

‘I hope so, I’m sure. It would be the best thing for all of us, and drive this romantic nonsense out of your head, Maraquita. Why, what is this, my dear? You are surely not weeping for the fate of this murderer, who has instigated his fellows to kill half your friends, and would have killed you, and your husband, and your parents, if he had had the opportunity? I shall begin to think you have very little love for your father or myself, if you can prefer his life to ours.’

‘Oh, no, mamma, it isn’t that! I am very thankful to think you are all safe. Only—only—Henri, who used to love me so—to die! Oh, it must not be! It is too shocking!’

‘If a man sets all the laws of his country at naught, he must pay the penalty of his wrong-doing,’ said Mrs Courtney sententiously.

‘Yes; but there is some excuse for him, mamma. Think of his grief for my loss, his jealousy, his revenge. It was I who drove him to it. I should have been true to him at all hazards, and then this terrible business would never have happened. Oh, mamma, he must not die, or his spirit will haunt me all my days,’ said Quita, trembling, with closed eyes.

‘Maraquita, you are exaggerating the blame that is due to you in this matter. In the first place, we don’t know that the mutiny was organised on your account at all. The negroes are disaffected, I am sorry to say, all over San Diego. And if it were, it is an outrage which should call forth nothing but resentment on your part. You have been foolishly weak in former times with regard to this man; but he must have been insane if he ever believed you would marry him. You followed your parents’ wishes in accepting Sir Russell Johnstone, and have nothing to reproach yourself with in regard to it. Now, leave the rest of the matter to him, and don’t worry your head about it. You may depend upon it, the Governor will do what is just and right, and such a dreadful affair will never be allowed to happen again.’

‘But Henri—what will they do to Henri?’ moaned Maraquita.

‘Oh, this is unbearable! You are past all reason!’ cried Mrs Courtney impatiently. ‘Here, Jessica, help me off with her ladyship’s things, and let us put her into bed.’

She pulled off the various garments of cambric and lace, almost roughly, in her indignation at her daughter’s weakness; and having seen Maraquita laid in bed, she left her in her old nurse’s care, whilst she went to ask the doctor for a sleeping draught.

Jessica had been installed at Government House as she had desired, and her wages had been raised to nearly double their former sum. Lady Russell had felt uncomfortable at first to remember that there was some one beside her who knew all about her maiden life, but in her present extremity she turned to her old servant with a feeling of security that she need hide nothing from her. As her mother left the room, she moved on her pillow with a heavy sigh, and laid her little white hand in Jessica’s dark palm. The negro nature, if vindictive and revengeful under injustice, is also very affectionate and easily conciliated. This caressing action on Maraquita’s part touched her old nurse’s heart. It was some time since her little missy had shown any token of love for her, and it won her over on the instant to her side.

‘Jessica,’ sighed Quita, ‘I’m very unhappy.’

‘I know you is, poor missy,’ responded the negress. ‘You’se feelin’ berry bad to-night. And, sakes! it’s no wonder. But it’ll be all right bime-by, missy.’

‘I loved him, Jessica, very much,’ continued her young mistress. ‘You knew all about us, and how I used to slip out when everybody was asleep, and go to meet him in the Oleander thicket.’

‘Ah, yes, missy, Jessica knew. Many’s the night I’ve sot up, and watched and waited for you to come back; but it was generally daylight before you came. Ah! you used to love de oberseer in dose days, Missy Quita, pretty strong.’

‘And I love him still, Nurse! I can’t help it!’ cried Quita feverishly, as she sat up in bed, with her dark hair floating about her, and stared at the negress with dilated eyes. ‘I have loved him all along; and if they kill him, they will kill me too.’

‘No, no, missy; Governor not killing Massa Courcelles. Only keep him in prison little while, and den let him go free. Lie down, missy, and go sleep. All right bime-by.’

‘But I want to see him!’ exclaimed Quita excitedly. ‘I want to hear everything they are going to do to him; and I want to ask his forgiveness for having married Sir Russell. I must see him, Jessica. I shall go mad if I don’t.’

‘Den missy shall see him,’ replied the servant soothingly.

‘Will you manage it for me, Jessica?’ asked the girl eagerly; ‘and without saying a word to mamma. Will you find out where Monsieur de Courcelles has been taken, and if I can possibly get permission to visit him, and if there will be a trial, and when? Find out everything, Jessica, and let me know to-morrow morning, and you shall have the pair of gold bangles papa gave me last birthday. Stay! you shall have them now,’ continued Quita, as she sprang from her bed and took the ornaments off her dressing-table. ‘Put them on your wrists, Jessica, and remember you are to find out everything!’

‘Missy berry good to ole Jessica,’ said the negress, as she clasped the glittering circlets on her dusky arms, and feasted her eyes on them; ‘and I’ll know de whole truth by to-morrow morning. Only missy must lie down again now, and keep all dis berry dark, or de ole missus nebber let me tell nuffin.’

The entrance of Mrs Courtney at this juncture with the opiate draught put a stop to further confidence, and Maraquita, having obediently swallowed it, soon lost sight of her troubles in sleep. Mrs Courtney dismissed Jessica for the night, and lay down by her daughter’s side; but it was long before she followed her example. She trembled not only for the fright she had gone through, but for the influence she feared it might have upon Maraquita’s future.

‘Poor child!’ she thought, as she contemplated the lovely face, now tranquil in slumber on the pillow beside her, ‘she is passing through a terrible ordeal. I only trust it may not cause a rupture between Sir Russell and herself. I am certain he suspects something. I did not half like the look with which he received my explanation of the matter. It was the most unfortunate thing in the world that that fellow should have been planted right in Maraquita’s way as she left the room. Two minutes sooner or later, and she would not have seen him. Now, I hardly dare to think how it may end. If he is condemned to death, she certainly must not hear of it: I must invent some reason to Sir Russell for taking her away. Her emotional nature would break down altogether under such a strain. What an awful thing it is that she should ever have fallen into his clutches!’ And Mrs Courtney sighed over it until she fell asleep.

As soon as the morning broke, Maraquita having passed a good night, and everything being tranquil at Government House, she accompanied her husband to Beauregard for the day, for all the planters were entertaining grave fears for the continued submission of their coolie hands, and it was not thought advisable to leave the estates for long at a time without a ruling eye. Her departure was the signal for a long conference between Lady Russell and old Jessica. The negress had ascertained that it was possible for the friends of the prisoners to obtain access to them through a written order from the Governor, but that the privilege would only be extended in the case of relations.

‘That renders it impossible!’ exclaimed Quita despairingly, for she was not a woman with the wit to overcome difficulties.

‘How so, missy?’ demanded Jessica. ‘Why impossible? I can get order quick enough.’

‘You, Jessica? But Sir Russell knows you. Besides, he would never believe you were related to Monsieur de Courcelles.’

‘Oh, missy, I not going work dat way at all. Course he not gib it to me; but if missy gib me five-dollar note, dat half-caste woman Rosita will go swaer she’s de oberseer’s aunt, or his moder, and want speak to him with her daughter—dat’s you, missy. Den you put veil over your face, and big cloak, and go with Rosita and see de oberseer.’

‘But Rosita may tell,’ said Maraquita, shrinking from the idea.

Jessica shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

‘Rosita not tell—what good her telling? but if missy ’fraid, gib her ten dollars ’stead of five! den I swear she not tell.’

‘And what else did you hear, Jessica?’

‘Sambo say de Governor would hab hung all de mutineers dis morning, same like dogs, only de Colonel ob de forces tell him dat berry bad plan, and make big fight, and he better have proper martials. So dat am fixed for to-morrow, and den dey will be hung at sunset fire—dat what Sambo says.’

‘And—and—what more, Jessica?’

‘Dat’s pretty well all, missy, only de corpses hab been cleared away, and will be buried dis evening. And Missy Latreille berry bad in hospital, and both de Missy Burns dead, and dere fader hab sworn if Governor don’t hang de rebels, he will.’

‘Oh, it is terrible!’ sighed Maraquita. ‘I shall never have the courage to visit the cells. I am so afraid of being found out.’

‘Den missy better not go.’

‘But, Jessica, he will die without my seeing him, and I shall never forgive myself. I don’t know what to do.’

She vacillated, like the weak creature she was, between two opinions, until it was almost too late for Jessica to arrange the matter for her; but finally, under the dread of her mother’s speedy return from Beauregard, she made up her mind to visit De Courcelles, and Jessica was despatched with a ten dollar note to make the necessary preparations.

When the afternoon sun was somewhat on the wane, and Sir Russell Johnstone, having passed a sleepless night, and believing his wife to be safe in her own apartments, had thrown himself down on a couch to obtain some rest, Maraquita, effectually disguised with veil and cloak, stole down the back staircase of Government House, in company with the negress, and sought the abode of the half-caste woman Rosita, who had been fully instructed in the part she had to play. Leaving Jessica behind them, the two women immediately set out for the Fort, where they were received by the officer commanding the prison guard. He threw one glance on the Governor’s signature, and gave them immediate admittance.

‘Friends to see the prisoner No. 14, by the Governor’s permission,’ he shouted to the warder, who, unlocking a heavy iron-clamped door, ushered the visitors into a stone passage, from which there seemed to be no possibility of egress. Maraquita’s feeble courage was fast failing her, and had it not been for the cool nerve and determination of Rosita, she would have probably betrayed herself. But the half-caste woman was quite equal to the emergency.

‘Ah, sir, tell me!’ she exclaimed, as soon as they were alone with the warder, ‘will they really kill my poor nephew? Is there no chance of a reprieve?’

‘Don’t think so, ma’am,’ was the official’s answer; ‘but no one can tell for certain till after the court-martial to-morrow. Your nephew, you say?’

‘Yes! and this poor girl, my daughter, was to have been married to him before long. It’s a terrible trial for her! I don’t know how she’ll stand the interview.’

‘She’d better not see him. ’Twon’t do no good,’ said the warder roughly; ‘though she’s had a lucky escape from such a rascal.’

‘But I’ve come on her account alone. She can’t rest till she’s seen her cousin. Now, Clara, my dear, you’d better go in by yourself first, and then when the time’s up, the warder will let you know.’

All this had been pre-arranged between them, but Rosita played her part much better than Maraquita had the power to do. Her large eyes glanced up almost appealingly when No. 14 was reached, and the gaoler’s keys rattled in the door, and had not her companion pushed her into the cell, she would have turned round and run away. But it was done, and her retreat was cut off. She stood in the same room as Henri de Courcelles.

‘Friends for No. 14,’ sung out the warder, as he opened the door; ‘only fifteen minutes allowed, so make the most of them.’

Henri de Courcelles looked up in amazement as the order sounded on his ear. He knew of no friends to visit him in his trouble. He was sitting in a small whitewashed room, which contained a pallet, a table, and a couple of wooden chairs. His day’s rations were before him, but he had not touched them. He was still in his usual attire, for it had not been thought worth while to put him into prison clothes, and notwithstanding an unshorn face and unkempt hair, he was looking as handsome—perhaps handsomer, than ever, for disorder suited his gipsy style of beauty. As he caught sight of Maraquita’s shrouded and veiled figure, he started a little, but he never supposed for a moment it could be she, until she lifted her veil, and gazed at him with scared and mournful eyes.

‘Henri,’ she exclaimed, in a piteous voice, ‘I have come to see you!’

In her vanity, she had believed she had only to stand before him, and look miserable, to bring him to her feet again. She had forgotten the deadly insult she had put upon the man by marrying Sir Russell Johnstone; the lies with which she had attempted to deceive him to the very end; the treachery by which she and her mother had procured his dismissal from Beauregard. She trusted, like many another of her sex, too much to the power of her beauty to sway the minds of men. But mere loveliness cannot supply the place of truth and fidelity, and she had become nothing in the eyes of her former lover but a whited sepulchre, and was the last person upon earth he desired to see. He sprang to his feet as her voice fell on his ear, and looked at her with ineffable scorn.

‘You have come to see me, and why?’

‘Oh, Henri, how can you ask? Do you think I am made of stone, that I have entirely forgotten? When I saw you amongst those terrible mutineers last night, it nearly killed me.’

‘It’s a pity it didn’t quite kill you,’ he replied, ‘for women such as you are not fit to live! Do you know why I was there,—why I headed their numbers, and incited them on to rebellion and slaughter?—in order that I might kill you,—in order that you should not live to deceive other men, and drive them to desperation, as you have driven me.’

‘Oh, Henri, Henri,’ she exclaimed, panting with fear, ‘you are raving! You would not injure me! Think, Henri, think of the hours I have lain with my head on your breast and my lips to yours; think how you have loved me,—of the tie between us, and I am sure that you would die sooner than hurt a hair of my head.’

‘Think of it!’ he repeated, with a bitter laugh; ‘haven’t I thought of it until it has turned my brain, and made me lust for your blood? To think of all your professions of love, and how they have ended, is to hate and despise you. The tie between us! It had better die, and rot where it lies, than grow up with one tithe of its mother’s falsehood. No, Maraquita, the time for my belief in you is past. If you came here to hear compliments, you have wasted your time, for I have nothing but loathing and hatred to give you.’

‘Oh, Henri!’ she said, shivering, with her face hidden in her hands, ‘don’t speak to me like that! I will go away, and never attempt to cross your path again, only promise me that neither you nor your friends shall hurt me. It was not my fault, indeed it wasn’t. I married at the command of my parents, and I have been so miserable since, Henri. I have dreamt of you almost every night, and longed to see you again. Oh, don’t look at me like that! Kiss me, and say you forgive me, or I shall never know another happy moment.’

‘Kiss you! Forgive you!’ he repeated witheringly. ‘Never! Neither in this life, nor the life to come. You escaped me last night, Maraquita, but you shall not escape me for ever. I have sworn to have your life, in return for all that was precious to me in mine, and I will have it yet. I only bide my time.’

Then her fancied passion died out beneath his threats and blazing eyes, and she turned and taunted him with his inability to carry out his intentions.

‘You will have my life? What are you thinking of, to talk in so absurd a manner? Do you forget where you are? Are you aware that you will be brought up for trial to-morrow morning, and that if I give the Governor one hint of this conversation, sunset will see your execution. How will you be able to carry out your threats against me then?’

‘And so this is the woman who will never know another happy moment without my forgiveness!’ he returned sarcastically,—‘who can calmly contemplate my possible execution as the means of her own deliverance, and hint that she may expedite it! I thank you, madam, for showing me your true nature so openly, else I might have been weak enough, in these last moments, to believe you had really preserved some little feeling for the man who should have been your husband. But I have a word to say to you in return. I shall not die to-morrow—I shall live until I have the weapon in my hand wherewith to strike you down. And then I shall not care how soon I go too. But in hell, Maraquita—even in hell—I shall be beside you, to haunt you with the treachery which sent us both there?’

‘Oh, have pity!—have pity on me!’ she cried, upon her knees.

‘I have no pity,’ he answered, in a low voice; ‘and I shall have none. You have left me only one feeling with regard to you,—determination to carry out my revenge. When I think of it, I feel as if I had the strength of ten thousand devils in me, and could tear these walls asunder with my bare hands, and set myself free, only to be revenged on you.’

‘Time’s up,’ called the warder from outside the door.

‘Henri, will you not speak one word to me?—give me one look before I go?’ wailed Maraquita.

He advanced upon her with the eyes of a demoniac.

‘Speak to you? Look at you?’ he exclaimed. ‘What have I to say to you that I have not already said? Leave this cell, as you value a few more days’ existence, or I shall tear you to pieces where you stand.’

And at the sight of his uplifted hands and glowering eyes, Maraquita gave a low cry, and hastened through the open doorway.

‘Not a very pleasant interview, I guess,’ observed the warder, as Quita walked down the stone passage again, sobbing as if her heart would break, and clinging to Rosita’s arm. ‘I told you you’d better not see him. He’s more mad than sane, and I was half afraid he might do you some harm.’

‘Is there,’ demanded Maraquita, as soon as she could command her voice sufficiently to speak, ‘is there any chance of his being able to escape from prison?’

The gaoler laughed.

‘Escape? Well, no. I wouldn’t set my heart on that, if I was you, miss. ’Twould take a better man than he—though he’s a powerful fellow, too—to break through these walls, when he’s once inside them. He’ll never leave them again, unless it’s by the Governor’s orders—you may take your oath of that.’

At Rosita’s house, Jessica received her weeping young mistress again, and conducted her safely back to her own apartments; but it was long before Maraquita could make up her mind whether she should speak to Sir Russell on the subject of De Courcelles or not. Some suspicion might attach to her doing so, though she trusted to her native cunning to make a good story of it. But if she said nothing, and the court took a lenient view of the part he had maintained in the mutiny, Henri de Courcelles might be set at large again, and accomplish his wicked designs upon her life. The love of living, so strong in every human breast, finally outweighed all other considerations, and Maraquita, after a night of painful deliberation, asked Jessica to summon Sir Russell to her side.

The Governor, unused to such amenities on the part of his bride, came with alacrity, and full of tender solicitude for the apprehension and terror she had passed through.

‘You must try and dismiss it all from your mind now, my darling, for the danger is really past. We try the mutineers to-day, and I have very little doubt of the sentence which will be passed upon them.’

‘There is one—the man who spoke to me the other night,’ said Maraquita, trembling; ‘what will they do to him?’

The Governor frowned.

‘You mean the ringleader? I cannot tell; but if I had to decide, I should say that hanging was too good for him. Why do you ask, my dear? Surely you are not interested in his fate.’

‘Oh, no, no! I am afraid of him,’ replied his wife. ‘He was papa’s overseer once, and he—he—presumed to fall in love with me; and because—because I married you instead, he has sworn to kill me; and he will, Sir Russell, I am sure he will, if they let him go free!’

‘He shall not go free!’ exclaimed her husband indignantly. ‘Such outrages from the half-caste population against European settlers are not to be tolerated. I am glad you have told me this, Quita; it will go greatly against him, if the court should be disposed to show him any favour.’

‘Oh, do send him away—get rid of him at all risks. He frightens me. I shall die of fear,’ she whispered, clinging to Sir Russell’s arm.

‘He shall never frighten you again, my darling. I will take care of that,’ replied the Governor decidedly, as he pressed her to him. But as he was embracing her, Jessica entered the bedroom, with an official paper.

‘Orderly from Fort bring for Governor,’ she ejaculated.

Sir Russell glanced over its contents.

‘Good heavens!’ he cried, ‘he has escaped us!’

‘Who—who?’ demanded Maraquita.

‘The very man you were speaking of—Henri de Courcelles. He has broken, by some miraculous means, out of his prison cell, and is missing. I must order out the mounted police at once to follow him. Don’t be afraid, Maraquita. It is impossible that he can escape the vigilance of the law, in such a little place as San Diego.’

‘He will—he will!’ exclaimed the unhappy girl, as her husband rushed out of the room. ‘He will live, as he said, to murder me.’ And with that she fell back unconscious on her pillows.

Chapter VI

The account of the attempted massacre at Government House reached Lizzie through Mr Courtney; but he did not tell her that Henri de Courcelles had been arrested as one of the mutineers. He knew that she had regarded his late overseer with affection, and he wanted to spare her the pain of the suspense of learning his fate. It would be time enough, he thought, for her to mourn when her friend had been tried and condemned. But his kind consideration was wasted, for the news came to her by means of the yellow girl, Rosa, who burst into her presence on the day of De Courcelles’ escape from the Fort prison, brim full of the intelligence.

‘Oh, Missy Liz! dar’s grand news come from Government House. De Fort prison doors is bust open, and dey’s all gone—ebbery one of dem mutineers, and Massa Courcelles, he gone wid them.’

‘Monsieur de Courcelles!’ exclaimed Lizzie, hardly believing her ears. ‘What are you talking of, Rosa?’

‘Jes’ God’s truth, Missy Liz. Massa Courcelles de ringleader ob all de mutiny—dat’s what William Hall, dat hab jes’ come from de Fort, say; and dey take him prisoner ob Tuesday night, and put him in cell, and dis morning he was to be tried by ’martial; but he’s clean gone, and de mounted police am scouring San Diego for him.’

‘De Courcelles amongst the rebels!’ repeated Lizzie. ‘This, then, is what he meant by his revenge. Oh, that it had been in my power to save him from falling so low!’

‘But dat ain’t all, Missy Liz; dere’s more to come. William Hall say de police catch sight of Massa Courcelles ober de gully, close by Shanty Hill, and he ’scape them again, and run straight for de Alligator Swamp.’

‘He did not enter it?’ cried Lizzie, turning pale.

‘Oh, didn’t he, though? De police gallop after him, and he run same like deer, and jump de fences, and go squash right in de swamp, where de hosses couldn’t follow him, ’cause of de morass. And William say when Massa Courcelles get on edge of swamp, he turn and wave his hand, and hollo, and dive in bushes. And den de police see no more of him; but dey is waiting dere now, horses and all, till he come out again. But Massa Courcelles nebber come out again, Missy Liz. Dat what all de niggers say; alligator and swamp take him pretty quick, and got him now, maybe, de bad fellow!’

Lizzie did not answer her chattering handmaid, except by asking,—

‘What time is it, Rosa?’

‘Jes’ gone tree, Missy Liz.’

‘And when did this happen? I mean when did the police lose sight of Monsieur de Courcelles in the Alligator Swamp?’

‘Eleben o’clock, missy.’

‘Four hours,’ said Lizzie to herself. ‘God help him! What can I do?’

She began turning over the contents of a medicine-chest as she thought thus, and pouring the liquid from one bottle into the other, in an apparently mechanical manner.

‘Rosa!’ she said suddenly, turning to her open-eyed attendant, ‘I am going out presently, and I may be detained longer than I anticipate. Take great care of baby whilst I am away, and put her to sleep in your own room to-night. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, yes, Missy Liz.’

She watched her mistress array herself in her walking things, and take down a broad sombrero hat, and a long cloak, which had belonged to her father, from the cupboard where they hung, and place brandy and a bottle of quinine, and strong smelling-salts and camphor in the basket she hung upon her arm. These proceedings only excited Rosa’s curiosity; but when Lizzie went on to load a revolver and place it in her belt, and take a huge staff in her hand, the yellow girl could contain herself no longer, but cried out,—

‘Oh, Missy Liz, Missy Liz! what you going to do with all dem things?’

‘Dare I trust you?’ said Lizzie, turning her grave, pale face towards her. ‘Will you be faithful and keep my secret if I tell you what I am going to do?’

‘Missy Liz, I will!’ replied Rosa solemnly. ‘I knows I’se berry bad gal to you once. I said drefful things what I didn’t mean; but I’se only ignorant yellow gal, Mis Liz, and I didn’t think how bad I was. But Massa Norris, he make me promise when he go ’way that I’d be good faithful servant to you, and take great care of you, and he’d bring me lubly dress from England next time he come; and I would do it, Missy Liz, without de dress, and only because I love you for all you done for me.’

‘I believe you, and I will confide in you, for I must have a friend to help me. Rosa, I am going to the Alligator Swamp to try and find Monsieur de Courcelles.’

‘De Alligator Swamp! Oh, Missy Liz! you nebber going there? You can’t walk dere for de swamp, nor de thorn bushes; and de green slime hab a smell what chokes you. Missy,’ continued Rosa earnestly, ‘even a nigger can’t stay dere. You will lose your way d’reckly—dere’s no path to guide you; and de alligators is awful. Dey kill you d’reckly dey see you. Oh, Missy Liz, for God’s sake, don’t try to go!’

‘Listen to me, dear Rosa. I must go! It is of no use to try and stop me. Monsieur de Courcelles has been very wicked, no doubt—I don’t defend his conduct—but once I loved him Rosa, and a woman can never quite forget the man she has loved.’

‘No, dat’s true, missy. Juan want me to marry him, but I keep thinking too much ob that rascal sailor boy what was de fader of my poor leetel Carlo—Dat’s truth,’ answered Rosa, shaking her black curls.

‘Well then, perhaps you can understand a little what I feel now, Rosa. Monsieur de Courcelles is in fearful danger. I know his spirit. He will never come out of the swamp to be taken prisoner again. He will faint from the fumes of the fearful miasma first, and sink for ever in the morass, or he will cast himself before the first cayman in his path. I may not find him, or I may be too late to give him any assistance, but I must try. I have the proper medicines here to counteract the effect of the swamp, for him and myself; and if I find him, I think with this disguise I may get him safely out again without attracting the notice of the police. I shall not go by Shanty Hill, Rosa. I shall make my way round by the Miners’ Gulch. There is an entrance there at the back of the Sans Souci plantation.’

‘And if you find him, Missy Liz—what den?’ inquired the yellow girl.

‘Ah, Rosa! that is where I shall want your assistance and your fidelity,’ replied her mistress. ‘If I find him, I must bring him here, and hide him from the police until I can get him safely away from the island.’

‘Dat berry dangerous work, Missy Liz.’

‘I know it, but how can I do otherwise? Could I let the man whom I once believed would be my husband, perish in the Alligator Swamp, without an attempt to rescue him; or deliver him up to die a murderer’s death upon the gallows, as long as I can keep him from it? Oh, Rosa, Rosa!’ cried Lizzie, weeping, ‘it is the same with all of us, white and black alike. Love—although a love that is dead and over—sanctifies everything, and claims a certain duty even for its ashes.’

The yellow girl did not understand her mistress’s words, but her tears appealed to her heart, and she cried with her.

‘Yes, Missy Liz, I understand. Dat’s jes’ same like me and de sailor fellow. But you must take great care of yourself, Missy Liz. You must be berry ’ticular where you step, and how you go, and keep a sharp look-out for de alligators. Dey berry cowardly, Missy Liz. Dey frightened of noise, and dey can’t run no ways; so if you don’t tread right on dem, you’se all right.’

‘Yes, yes, Rosa! I know that, and I will take every possible caution,’ replied Lizzie. And then she kissed the baby, and kissed Rosa, and walked bravely off, as though she had been going on her daily rounds.

The Alligator Swamp was situated in a deep gorge or valley between two high hills, and was simply a stagnant bog, thickly clothed with poisonous vegetation—indeed no healthy trees or bushes could have existed in such an atmosphere. The fatal upas tree spread its thick branches over the morass, sheltering deadly fungi of orange, and red, and white. Thorny bushes were matted and interlaced about it, so that had there been a solid foundation to the Alligator’s Swamp, it would have been impossible to force one’s way through, or find a path whereon to tread. The only resting-place for one’s feet consisted of the logs and trunks of decayed trees, which had dropped, rolling into the slime, and choked it up. But they were treacherous paths, as may be well imagined, and it was difficult, in the semi-darkness, to distinguish them from the caymen—the largest and fiercest breed of alligators—from which the swamp derived its name. These creatures lay on the top of the slimy deposit, just like rugged brown logs in appearance, until a sound or a touch caused the apparently inert mass to move, and a ferocious head, with two diamond bright eyes, and an enormous mouth, with cruel fangs, rose up suddenly and snapt its jaws over its unsuspecting prey. For there was no real daylight in the Alligator Swamp. The branches of the trees were so thickly interlaced overhead that the sun had no chance to penetrate them and cleanse the Augean Stable with his health-giving rays; and so the decaying vegetation and the slime had festered on together for years past, and the caymen had bred and flourished there, until the boldest negro of them all considered it certain death to breathe the air which they inhaled. If the foolhardy creature who attempted to traverse the swamp were not immersed in the stinking mud, or seized by the hungry alligators, he was bound after a little while to sink down, giddy and intoxicated from inhaling the various poisons around him, and so fall a prey to either one or the other. Lizzie Fellows was perfectly conscious of the terrible risk she ran,—more so, perhaps, than most women would have been, for her father had fully explained the dangers of the swamp to her, and warned her off its precincts. She knew that the reason runaway negroes and escaped prisoners took refuge in the Alligator Swamp was not because they sought safety in it, but because they preferred death by its horrors to giving themselves up to the law. They knew they went to their grave when they entered it, but they knew also that the police would refuse to follow them there, and that they would be left to die alone and unmolested. She had a long walk to take before she reached it. She was anxious to meet no one who should inquire her errand, or try to prevent it, and so she took a circuitous route to Sans Souci, and crept round the back of the plantation until she came to a clump of dense underwood, through which she knew a path led to the fatal spot. She tied a handkerchief steeped in some disinfectant across her mouth and nostrils as she entered it, and then, with a short prayer to God for protection and success, went bravely on. She carried a knife in her hand, with which she sliced the bark of the trees as she walked along, for she was afraid of losing her way altogether, and perhaps never finding the sunlight again; but for the first few minutes the Alligator Swamp seemed to be a harmless place enough. The grass beneath her feet was bright and green, from the humidity of the atmosphere and the shade of the trees, but the first indication of danger was given by her foot suddenly sinking in wet soil up to her ankle. She drew it back quickly, and commenced to walk more slowly, and tapping the ground before her with the stout stick she held in her hand, before she ventured to tread on it. Her heart beat fast at times as a rustle in the bushes betrayed the presence of a rattlesnake—about the only living thing that shared the swamp with the alligators—or a splash in the surrounding vegetation proved she was approaching the haunts of the caymen. Still she went on, picking her way over the morass, or skirting it by means of the rotten trunks that lay across it, and swayed and rolled as she mounted them, as if they would give way beneath her weight, and let her fall into the slimy pool they floated on. Soon she began to feel the effects of the mephitic vapours with which the place abounded, and had recourse to her smelling-salts, to prevent her becoming giddy. All this time Lizzie had kept up a continual note from a whistle she had hung about her neck, and at intervals she had called upon Henri de Courcelles by name. As she advanced to the centre of the swamp the daylight seemed to be entirely excluded, and she lighted a lantern which was tied at her girdle. With her staff in one hand and her revolver in the other she now began to pick her way step by step, her heart sinking with fear and disappointment as she went. For not a sound came in answer to her whistle or her call. The profoundest silence reigned in the Alligator Swamp. The stench of the decaying vegetation was more and more apparent, and the only light by which she walked was the feeble glimmer thrown in advance from the little lantern at her waist. It was a situation to appal the bravest spirit. Once she stepped forward almost confidently, and placed her foot on a broad bridge, formed, as she believed, of the corrugated trunk of a fallen tree, but as she touched it it sank beneath the slime, and rose again immediately with two fierce twinkling eyes and an open jaw full of pointed teeth, to confront her.

Lizzie flew backward with a scream of terror, and, clinging with one arm to the branch of a tree, discharged her revolver full in the reptile’s face. The bullet was probably battered against its impervious hide, but the shot had the desired effect of frightening the alligator back into its home of slime. It had another, and more unforeseen effect. It reached the senses of an almost unconscious man, who had slidden into a sitting position beside some bushes, but a few yards off, and roused him from his sleep of death. The sound of the shot conveyed but one idea to his mind, however,—that his pursuers had penetrated his asylum, and were close at hand to capture him; and with the intention to defy them to the last, he staggered to his feet, and set his back against a tree. The tall figure clothed in white became apparent in the surrounding twilight, and when Lizzie raised her eyes from the spot where the cayman had disappeared from view, it was to fix them on the form of Henri de Courcelles. She uttered a cry of pleasure at the discovery, which sounded to him like a note of victory.

‘Stand off!’ he exclaimed loudly; ‘shoot me like a man if you will, but don’t attempt to touch me with your accursed fingers, or I will dive into the swamp and escape you.’

He was about to put his suicidal threat into execution, when Lizzie stepped quickly across the yielding earth which separated them, and stood by his side.

‘Henri!’ she ejaculated, as she clutched at his clothes with her hand and held him back.

He turned and stared at her.

‘Lizzie!’ was all he could say.

‘Yes, it is I,’ she answered simply.

At that his senses appeared to return to him. His astonishment at seeing her was so great, that he pulled himself together, as a drunken man will sometimes do, under special circumstances.

‘Lizzie—here!’ he repeated. ‘But what made you come to such a place? Do you know that you are courting certain death, and that every moment may be your last? Go back at once! Don’t stay here another instant! You were mad to think of such a thing.’

‘I am going back, and at once,’ she answered quickly, ‘but you must come with me.’

‘I cannot. The police are waiting for me outside, and I will die here sooner than deliver myself into their hands.’

She disengaged the wallet of medicines which she had carried on her back, and, pouring out a mixture of brandy and quinine, held it to his lips.

‘Drink this, Henri, and listen to me. I have come here expressly to find you and save you, and you must trust yourself to me. The police shall not take you. They are waiting by Shanty Hill, and I know a secret outlet by Miners’ Gulch. But we must leave this pestiferous atmosphere at once, or it may be fatal to both of us.’

He clung to her like a child to its mother.

‘You can save me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, my good angel! why did I ever desert you?’

‘Hush! Don’t speak of that now. Think of nothing excepting the best means to get out of this dreadful place. Drink some more brandy, and inhale this ammonia. That is right. Pull yourself together, and follow me closely. I will go first, and lead the way.’

She pulled him forward as she spoke, and mechanically he followed her. Step by step they went, very slowly and cautiously at first, and then faster, as the dusky twilight spread itself out, and the gleams of sunshine penetrated at intervals the dense foliage, and turned its neutral tints into living green. On they went, she in front with her staff and revolver, and he, behind, only half comprehending what had occurred to him, until they reached the thicket which abutted on the Sans Souci plantation, where he sank down upon the grass, with a low moan of exhaustion. Lizzie was busy with her wallet directly. She had anticipated that as soon as the excitement was over he would succumb to the strain he had passed through—for the Spanish Creoles have not strong constitutions, and had provided the necessary remedies against it. It was some little time before Henri de Courcelles fairly understood what had happened to him, and then his gratitude knew no bounds.

‘Am I really safe, and with you?’ he murmured. ‘What have I done to deserve such goodness at your hands?’

‘You are clear of that terrible swamp, Henri; but you are not by any means safe yet; and if you would be, you must follow out my instructions to the letter. See here! I have an old cloak and sombrero which belonged to my poor father. I left them under this tree when I entered the swamp. We will wait here quietly until it is a little darker, and then you must put them on, and come home to the bungalow with me, and I will conceal you there until you can find some means of leaving San Diego.’

‘But how will that be possible, Lizzie? The bills must be out by this time, putting a price upon my head, and every nigger in the island will be turned into an amateur detective, in the hope of being able to claim the reward.’

‘Oh, don’t let us think of that now!’ replied Lizzie wearily. ‘The chief thing at present is to restore your vitality. It is a blessing you are still alive, Henri. Eat and drink what I have brought for you, and thank God you can do it in safety. Nothing will harm you here.’

‘And you actually came in search of me, alone and unprotected?’ he said, looking at her with the deepest admiration. ‘You braved the dangers of this awful place,—ran the risk of a terrible death, and all for me—for me, who have treated you so badly! Oh, Lizzie,’ continued Henri de Courcelles, seizing her hand, ‘if the devotion of the life you have rescued can atone to you, it will.’

But she drew her hand away hastily—almost with repugnance—from his clasp. Was it not that of a would-be murderer?

‘Henri,’ she replied quietly, though her voice shook, ‘you must never speak to me again like that. I have done what you say, and I thank Heaven, who has crowned my efforts with success; but it was done for the sake of the Past, not of the Present; and nothing in the Future, except the knowledge that your life has been saved for better things, can ever repay me. I have been shocked beyond measure at what I have heard concerning you. You have steeped your hands, or would have done so, in the blood of innocent victims, for the sake of carrying out an unworthy revenge on the daughter of your benefactors. It was a crime which would make any honest person shrink from you, which would make most people consider that a death on the gallows, or in the Alligator Swamp, was your just deserts. But I cannot forget, Henri. Ever since I have known your relations with my adopted sister, I have ceased to desire your affection; but I cannot forget that I once valued it, and to think of your being sent out of the world without the opportunity to repent, was very terrible to me. That is why I have run this risk to save you, and why I am thankful I have succeeded. But don’t speak of love to me again, or you may make me sorry instead of glad.’

There was a calm, reasonable determination in her voice as she spoke, that brought conviction home to Henri de Courcelles’ mind. He saw it plainly now. He had not only lost her love,—he had forfeited her respect and her esteem; and as the truth smote home to him, the unwonted tears rose to his eyes.

‘Why didn’t you leave me in the swamp?’ he murmured. ‘I had better have remained there, to become the prey of the alligators, than live under your contempt. Let me go back,’ he continued, starting to his feet, ‘for your words have taken all my courage out of me, and I would rather die a thousand deaths by my own hand than fall into those of my enemies, and swing like a malefactor from the Fort gates.’

‘You shall do neither!’ exclaimed Lizzie, as she caught his arm, and drew him down to her side again. ‘Come, Henri, be reasonable. Remember I am your friend, and have thought out the whole plan of your escape. Put on this cloak and sombrero. See how completely they disguise you, and cover you from head to foot. The only thing we have to dread now is lest some acquaintance should meet and question me; but that is very unlikely, as this is the general dinner hour for all Europeans, and I will take you home by an unfrequented path.’

‘But when I reach your bungalow, Lizzie, what will Rosa say?’

‘I have been obliged to take Rosa into my confidence, Henri, but she will not betray you. As for the rest, leave it to me, and I believe that, with Heaven’s aid, I can bring you out of this strait.’

‘You are too good to me,’ he said brokenly; ‘and I place myself altogether in your hands. Lead on, Lizzie, as you think best, and I will follow.’

‘No, Henri; we will walk side by side. It will be much better, in case of an encounter with any one who knows us, that I should show a perfect fearlessness in the matter. Take my staff in your hand, and sling the wallet across your shoulder. Then we shall look as if we had been searching the country for herbs for medicinal purposes; and I will gather a bundle of leaves, in order to carry out the delusion. That is right. Now come with me, and let us step out manfully together.’

They traversed the couple of miles that lay between them and Beauregard, without encountering anything more formidable than a few negroes sauntering along the road as they returned from work. But as they approached the plantation, the danger of discovery became more imminent, and Lizzie conducted her companion to her bungalow by a circuitous route.

It was reached at last, however, and as De Courcelles sank into one of the familiar chairs in the sitting-room, he felt like a man who has been delivered from the very jaws of death to be suddenly transported into paradise.

‘But you must not rest here, Henri,’ whispered Lizzie, as she quickly closed all the jalousies. ‘Mr Courtney or one of the hands might enter at any moment. There would be continual risk of discovery.’

‘Where, then?’ he demanded, in the same tone.

‘In my dear father’s bedroom. It has never been opened since his death, and you are not likely to be disturbed there. You know what these silly, superstitious natives are. They would not enter a chamber where a death has occurred, to save their lives. They would be fearful of encountering my dear father’s wraith. You see now my object in dressing you up in his cloak and hat. If any of our negroes had seen you, he would probably have run shrieking to his hut, to spread the report that the Doctor’s ghost was walking about Beauregard. You must remember to keep up the idea, should any unforeseen risk occur. But here, for a few days at least, I believe you will be safe,’ continued Lizzie, as she unlocked the door of her late father’s apartment, ‘until I can get you away from the island. You will have to be my prisoner,’ she added playfully; ‘and I shall lock you in, and bring you your meals at the stated times. But keep the jalousies bolted inside night and day, and try to do with as little light as possible, to avoid attracting attention. You will find all my dear father’s wardrobe in the cupboard here. Use it as you think best, and try and be contented under the restraint, and thankful (as I am) that Heaven has spared your life to you.’

He turned round as he crossed the threshold, and sank on his knees before her.

‘You have forbidden me to speak of love,’ he ejaculated, ‘but I must say something to express my gratitude. You have indeed heaped coals of fire on my head! You have done what no other living creature, male or female, would have done; you have risked your life and safety for me, who have treated you worse than any one else. Let me say Heaven bless you for it, Lizzie. I feel if there is a hell beyond the one we suffer here, that mine will be to remember always the terrible mistake I made in allowing a woman’s personal beauty to blind me to the virtues of the friend whom I now feel I have loved and honoured above all the world.’

He took her hand and kissed it as he spoke, and Lizzie was not ashamed to let her tears fall freely on them both.

‘I am glad now, Henri,’ she uttered falteringly, ‘and I shall be glad in the days to come to think over the words you have just said, and to remember that you knew me for your true friend. There are different kinds of love from the one we once thought we felt for each other—and perhaps better ones—and something of the sort I shall never cease to feel for you. And if you think you owe me gratitude, Henri—if you would repay me let it be by abandoning all ideas of revenge and murder for the future. Don’t let me have the terrible self-reproach that I have wasted my affection on one so utterly unworthy of it.’

‘I have taken a different oath, Lizzie, but I will rescind it, for your sake, and here on my knees I swear to you that if I am spared to escape the gallows, I will abandon all ideas of revenge in the future. After all, Maraquita is but a false woman, not worthy of a man’s revenge. There are dozens such: the world is peopled with them.’

‘She is the woman you loved, Henri,’ replied Lizzie gravely, ‘and therefore she is the woman you should always be most lenient to. But she has passed out of your world, and the kindest thing you can do for her and yourself is to forget her. But you must not talk of such exciting topics to-night. It may be some time before you shake off the effects of the poisonous vapours you have inhaled. Go to rest now, and sleep without fear. I will guarantee that no one shall disturb your slumbers.’

De Courcelles took her advice, and flung himself, exhausted through excitement and fatigue, upon the late Doctor’s bed, whilst she, with a divine light, almost akin to maternal solicitude, upon her countenance, took a seat in the outer room, and prepared to watch all night against a possible surprise for the man she held prisoner.

Chapter VII

But from that moment Lizzie had not a moment’s peace. She dreaded everything and everybody. Each casual visitor she believed to be a spy, and the appearance of a friend made her think that the hour of discovery had come. Rosa made her a thousand promises of fidelity, but the yellow girl, though devoted to her mistress’s interests, was, after all, very much like other women, and found it a hard task to hold her tongue. The whole time she was employed in exercising the baby in the plantation, was a season of torture to Lizzie, who pictured her confiding the whole story to her most intimate friend, under a promise of inviolable secrecy. Meanwhile Henri de Courcelles, though confined to one room during the day time, and only venturing out after dark by means of the window, and with a disguise on, was passing a fairly pleasant time. The two women fed him royally, and waited on him like servants, and he held several conferences with Lizzie as to the possibility of his getting down to the Fort by night, and embarking as a seaman on board one of the Spanish crafts that lay in the bay of San Diego. They would have carried this plan, of which they had arranged all the minutiæ together, into effect at once, had it not been deemed advisable that De Courcelles should lie perdu until it might be supposed by the authorities that their prisoner had perished beyond all doubt in the Alligator Swamp. As soon as the guard of mounted police who watched for him outside the swamp was withdrawn, Lizzie and De Courcelles decided that his first attempt at an escape from the island should be made. He had been concealed in the bungalow for two days when Mr Courtney walked in one morning and took a seat beside Lizzie. The planter looked worn and anxious, and as he removed his hat, and passed his handkerchief across his brow, he seemed to have grown older of late, notwithstanding the brilliant marriage that his daughter had made. The words with which he opened the conversation, had reference to Maraquita.

‘Sir Russell and Lady Johnstone have come to stay with us at the White House, Lizzie.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ she replied. ‘I suppose Quita is nervous of staying at Government House, after what happened there last week. And I don’t wonder at it, poor girl! I should be glad to hear that the Governor had decided to take her to England.’

‘So should we, my dear, and they will go before long—there is no doubt of that—only, it would hardly do for the Governor to run away whilst the island is in this state of ferment. But he judged rightly in thinking that our dear Maraquita would feel safer and happier with her parents, and in her old home. For she has received a terrible shock, Lizzie, and it is telling on her visibly. She seems ten years older to me.’

‘Poor Quita, she cannot fail to feel it,’ replied Lizzie, looking at the matter in a totally different light from that in which Mr Courtney regarded it.

‘Yes, and I wish I could think that there was no further reason for her fears. Lizzie, I have come here this morning for one purpose only,—to persuade you to return with me to the White House.’

Lizzie started, and coloured.

‘Oh, Mr Courtney, I cannot. I don’t know why you want me there, but unless it is in my capacity as medical adviser, I must refuse. You forget that Mrs Courtney ordered me never to show my face there again.’

‘I can allow no feminine quarrels to interfere with your safety, Lizzie; and it is to secure that that I beg of you to take up your residence at my house until these mutinous ideas have been knocked out of the coolies’ heads. I do not feel that you are safe,—that we are, any of us, safe. I begin to distrust even my own hands, for whom I have done all in my power.’

‘Mr Courtney, I appreciate your kindness, but there are too many reasons why I cannot accept it.’

‘Name them, my dear.’

‘I have named one already, sir. Another is my infant charge. Do you suppose I would desert her?’

‘Bring her with you. There is room in the White House for us all.’

‘No, Mr Courtney,’ she answered proudly, ‘it is impossible. I will not take the child under the roof of the very woman who has falsely accused me of being its mother.’

‘But I am sure, Lizzie, that neither my wife nor Maraquita really believe that story.’

‘And I am sure of it too, sir; but that only places their cruelty to me in a more heinous light. Forgive me for saying it, Mr Courtney, before you, who have always been so good to me and my poor father, but I will never again place myself voluntarily in the society of either Mrs Courtney or Maraquita, until they have publicly acknowledged that they have done me a foul wrong.’

‘They have been very hard on you,’ sighed the planter; ‘but their conduct cannot blind me to my duty. I cannot consent to your remaining here, Lizzie. The negroes may rise at any moment, and this bungalow is in the very midst of their quarters. I have received secret information concerning them, that has seriously alarmed me. The general disaffection has spread much further than I dreamt of, and even the hands on Beauregard are believed to be ripe for rebellion. Were they to take it into their heads to rise, what would you do?’

Lizzie laughed at the idea.

‘In that case, sir—did I believe it possible (which I can hardly do) that your coolies could so utterly forget all they owe to you—I should be much safer here than in the White House. Why should they harbour any resentment against me? They loved my dear father, and I believe they love me for his sake, and I have nothing to do with their fancied causes for complaint. If they do rise, which God forbid, it will be the White House against which they will make a raid.’

‘Ah, my dear child, long as you have lived amongst them, you do not know the negro nature as I do. Once roused, he becomes a devil, and has no power of distinguishing between friends and foes. This bungalow will be the first piece of my property which they will have the opportunity of destroying, and I feel sure they will not spare it, nor perhaps even you. Lizzie, I beg, I implore of you to accept my offer of protection, and transport yourself, and all you value, to the White House.’

But Lizzie was firm. She quailed a little before the possible picture Mr Courtney had conjured up,—before the remembrance too of certain words of Captain Norris, in which he had expressed his own fears for her safety; but they had no power to alter her determination. There was her poor prisoner in the next room to them. Guilty as he had proved himself to be, she had promised him her protection, and she would stand by him to the last, even if they were doomed to perish together. So she only shook her head, and smiled, and continued stitching at her work.

‘Your obstinacy is incredible to me,’ said Mr Courtney, half angrily, ‘and you put me in a very unpleasant position. I promised your father (as far as I could) to supply his place to you. I look on you as second only to my own child, yet you refuse to accept from me a father’s protection, or to yield me the obedience of a daughter.’

‘I am sorry to appear ungrateful to you, Mr Courtney, but I have my own reasons for remaining in my own home, and your arguments have no power to shake them. Pray don’t be under any further apprehension for me—I have none for myself; and if your workers are disposed to mutiny, it is all the more reason that I should remain amongst them, and try to bring them to a better frame of mind.’

‘Ah, I have heard of your attempts in that direction already, Lizzie, and that the coolies call you the angel of Beauregard! You are a good girl, my dear, and may God reward you for all you have done. I am only sorry that unfortuitous circumstances should have laid this burden of secrecy upon you. But cheer up; the day will come, perhaps, when it will be removed as unexpectedly as it appeared. And no one shall rejoice more when that day comes than I shall, Lizzie.’

She sighed, but she answered nothing. She knew that if the day he spoke of ever dawned, it would be to bow her benefactor’s head with shame.

‘And so all my entreaties are in vain?’ said Mr Courtney, as he rose to go.

‘Yes, sir; I shall remain here; and honestly, I do not believe you have any cause for fear.’

Yet she pondered over what he had told her all that day, not from any dread of her own safety, but endeavouring to think of some plan for getting Henri de Courcelles away before there was any possibility of his detection. For she felt that if the coolies on Beauregard did rise, and proceed to incendiarism or slaughter, Henri de Courcelles, who had been their tyrannical master in the days gone by, and their inciter to rebellion in the present, would be the first victim of their lawless passions. Her mind was still running on the same subject when the evening shadows closed, and Hugh Norris unexpectedly walked into the room.

Her first feeling at seeing him was one of such unmitigated pleasure, that she could not help betraying it.

‘Oh, Hugh—I mean, Captain Norris,’ she exclaimed, ‘are you really back again? I am so glad—I didn’t think—I was afraid that—’ and here she stopped, blushing for her incoherency.

‘Are you really glad?’ he said, taking her hand, and warmly pressing it, whilst his open countenance revealed his emotion. ‘Have you felt my absence, Lizzie? Have our two months of separation stretched themselves out to their full term?’

‘Indeed they have,’ she answered ingenuously. ‘I have been counting the days till you should return. For we have passed through a terrible time since you left us. But perhaps you have already heard of it.’

‘Indeed I have heard of it, Lizzie,’ he said gravely, ‘and I thank God that it was no worse. What should I have done had you been involved in this horrible catastrophe? But I am here, and you are safe, and I will not leave San Diego again until I take you with me. Was I not right in my forebodings?’

‘Partially so; but you see that no one has harmed me yet. What a quick passage you have made this time, Captain Norris.’

‘Very quick; but you may imagine that I wasted no more time in England than I could help, Lizzie. I was not out of sight of San Diego before I was longing to get back again, and, thanks to favourable winds, and an obliging supercargo, I have made the double passage in as short a time as is possible. But I found time to accomplish my heart’s desire, all the same.’

‘What was that?’ she demanded curiously.

‘Do you remember the packet of letters you threw me to read when we last said good-bye, and you had to run off to attend to some woolly infant or other?’

‘Yes, yes, I remember. It was Mammy Chloe’s baby,’ she answered, laughing.

‘The first letter I opened surprised me more than anything has ever done in my life before. It was from your late father to Mr Courtney, and he signed himself “Herbert Ruthin,” and wrote in familiar terms of his father and mother, Sir William and Lady Ruthin, and of their place in Scotland—Aberdare.’

‘Well, well! of course; it was his own home,’ interrupted Lizzie impatiently. ‘Why should it have so greatly surprised you?’

‘Because, Lizzie, my mother (whose maiden name was Mary Herbert) is a second or third cousin of Lady Ruthin, and when her ladyship came to Maidstone, which is close to mother’s home, a few years ago, she called on us, and took dinner at the cottage.’

‘Oh, Hugh, how very, very strange!’ cried Lizzie, forgetting etiquette in her breathless surprise.

‘Yes, it is only another proof of how small the world is, and how we are all but one large family. I remembered Lady Ruthin’s visit to my mother distinctly, and also that I had heard she had had great trouble about her second son Herbert, but I fancied he was dead. When I learnt the truth from those letters, I determined to see Sir William and Lady Ruthin on my return to England, and I did so.’

‘You did!’ echoed Lizzie; ‘and, oh! what did they say?’

‘I was only at Aberdare two hours, dearest,’ replied Captain Norris, growing bolder as he gained his advantage, ‘but it was long enough to serve my purpose. I told them everything, Lizzie,—what a good life your dear father had lived here, expiating his youthful error by a course of self-abnegation, and how like a martyr he had died, stricken down by the exhaustion consequent on his labours for others. And I soon found that if their pride and mortification have prevented their speaking of their lost son for so many years past, it has not been because the love of him has faded from their hearts. They concluded he was dead long ago, but as I spoke of him, they were both melted into tears, and reproached themselves bitterly for not having employed stronger measures to ascertain his fate.’

‘My poor darling father!’ exclaimed Lizzie, weeping; ‘how I wish he could have had the comfort of knowing that his parents felt for him.’

‘Doubtless he knows it now, dear. But my story is not done yet, Lizzie. When I had told Sir William and Lady Ruthin all I knew about your father, I spoke of you, and their excitement became painful to witness. They are longing to see you, my dear, and make up to you for all you have suffered on account of your poor father’s exile. I am the bearer of a letter from them begging you at once to return to England and place yourself under their protection. I shall see you in your proper position at last, Lizzie, and reaping the reward you so richly deserve. I cannot tell you how proud and happy I feel to have been made the instrument of this change in your destinies.’

Lizzie looked up at him gratefully.

‘It was so good of you to think of it,’ she murmured; ‘but I can hardly believe it yet. My dear father’s parents! They will seem like part of himself to me, and especially if they cherish his memory. And I shall owe it all to you. What can I do for you in return, Hugh?’

‘Only one thing, dear. Let me take you back to England, and present you to your grandparents as my wife.’

‘Did you—did you—say anything to them about it?’ she asked timidly.

‘Well, I gave them a hint on the subject,’ he answered, laughing; ‘as far, that is to say, as I am concerned—I could not answer for you, you know, because you have not yet answered for yourself.’

‘And how did they take it?’

‘They were good enough to say that they would make no objection whatever to me as your husband, provided I gave up the sea and kept you on dry land. And Sir William promised, moreover, in that case, to help me to obtain suitable employment. And so you see, my dear, the conclusion of the matter rests with you. What is your answer?’

She saw the deep blue honest eyes gazing fondly into her own, and had just placed her hand in his preparatory to saying ‘Yes,’ when a loud unmistakable cough sounded from the inner room.

‘What is that?’ exclaimed Hugh Norris, starting to his feet, his senses always acutely alive to possible danger. ‘There is some one in your father’s bedroom. Stand aside, Lizzie, and let me see who it is.’

He seized his stick—his only weapon—as he spoke, and was about to try the locked door. But she interposed herself between him and it.

‘You cannot enter that room, Captain Norris. It is fastened.’

‘Then some one—a mutineer, perhaps—must have got in by the window. I am certain my ears did not deceive me. The sound we heard proceeded from that room, and I must satisfy myself on the subject.’

He was about to pass her, when she put out her hand to prevent him, and he observed how very pale and strained her face (but a few moments ago so smiling) had suddenly become.

‘Captain Norris, I hold this room sacred to myself, and neither you, nor any man, shall cross the threshold.’

He looked full at her then in his amazement, and the truth seemed to flash suddenly upon him.

‘You have been deceiving me!’ he exclaimed; ‘you have some one concealed there whom you are ashamed to tell me of! Who is it?’ he continued, in a low voice, which threatened danger,—‘that blackguard De Courcelles, who would have slaughtered every European in the Fort, if he had had his way, and whom I hear has been in hiding ever since?’

Lizzie was silent. Twice her mouth opened to utter a lie in the defence of her former lover, and twice it died unuttered on her lips. Hugh Norris knew her too well to misinterpret her want of courage. He threw her one look of deep reproach, and, turning away, sat down by the table, and buried his face in his hands. Lizzie could not withstand the action. She crept after him, and laid her hand timidly upon his shoulder.

‘Hugh,’ she whispered, ‘Hugh—’

But he jerked the kindly touch away, almost roughly.

‘Don’t come near me,’ he muttered, ‘Don’t speak to me. You are false, and you have destroyed all my faith in womankind.’

‘No, no, Hugh! you shall not say that of me. Listen, and I will tell you everything. I should have told it you in any case, for I sorely need your counsel and advice, only we have had no time as yet to speak of any one but ourselves. But you are good, and noble, and true, and if you do not approve of my action, you will at least not betray it. I will not deceive you, and I think, when you know all, you will acknowledge you would have done the same. Henri de Courcelles is in that room, a fugitive hiding from the law! No, don’t look at me like that! I call Heaven to witness he is not there as my lover, but that I would have extended the same succour to any fellow-creature who threw himself upon my mercy. Hugh! I heard that he had escaped from the Fort prison, and eluded the pursuit of the police by taking refuge in the Alligator Swamp. Could I have left him there to perish by a miserable death, without making one effort to save him?’

Captain Norris looked up at her in amazement.

‘But what could you do?’ he inquired. ‘Not a man in San Diego would venture to penetrate the horrors of the swamp, unless he wished to die.’

‘Yet a woman did,’ she whispered.

‘Lizzie, you do not mean to tell me that you went yourself?—that you risked the awful dangers of the miasma and the alligators, for the sake of this man, and that you live to tell the tale?’

‘The danger was not so great for me as for another, Hugh, because I knew the proper preventatives to carry with me. Anyway, I went, and I was successful. I found this unhappy and misguided man nearly unconscious from the effects of the poisonous air he was inhaling, and I brought him safely out of it, and have hid him here for the last two days, until I could devise some plan to get him away from San Diego. Will you help me, Hugh? I know it is a great thing to ask at your hands; and I have not another friend whom I would trust with the secret; but I shall not rest till I know he is secure from suffering a malefactor’s death upon the gallows.’

‘He deserves it, Lizzie, if any one ever did.’

‘I know it! but if we all received our deserts in this world, how badly we should fare! Hugh, you will believe me when I tell you that such love as I once entertained for Henri de Courcelles is all past, and for ever. I see his character in its true light at last,—as vindictive and revengeful and untrue! But that does not alter the case that once I thought him good enough to be my husband, and mine is a heart that cannot entirely forget!’

‘What do you want me to do for him, Lizzie?’

‘To get him down to the docks in disguise, and ship him on board one of the vessels there that are bound for Spain or America. It would be cruel to send him anywhere else. And if that should be impossible to do all at once, couldn’t you let him stay on the Trevelyan till you are able to send him away?’ continued Lizzie wistfully.

‘You ask me to do a very wrong and dangerous thing, my dear,—to harbour a rebel against the British Government, and cheat the gallows of its just due.’

‘No, Hugh—to succour a wretched fellow-creature, who was half driven to madness by a woman’s treachery, before he dreamt of committing such a crime. I cannot tell you all his story, but if you knew it, you would pity him, as I do.’

‘Nothing of the sort. I despise the fool for having thrown away such a heart as he had found in yours! Why, Lizzie! you are a heroine, and the noblest woman I ever met! Well, and suppose I become a traitor to my Queen and country at your command, and help this rascally lover of yours to escape the ends of justice, what reward am I to expect for the risk I shall run?’

‘What reward do you want?’ she answered, smiling at him through her tears. ‘You shall name it, Hugh, for I see you are going to do this great and generous thing for my sake, and hold out a helping hand to your unfortunate rival.’

‘Promise to become my wife, Lizzie! Nothing short of that will quite satisfy me of the purity of your benevolence for De Courcelles—because I know your nobility of character too well to think you would ever bestow your hand on one man whilst there was a remnant of love left in your heart for another.’

‘You only do me justice there, Hugh; for if I am not true I am nothing. Yes, I will be your wife, whenever you choose to ask me, and (God helping me) a good and faithful one.’

‘And a loving one into the bargain?’ he returned interrogatively. ‘I will not accept your hand without your heart, Lizzie.’

‘Can any wife be good and faithful if she is not loving, Hugh? But do not be afraid! I love you. Is that enough?’

‘Then come to my arms!’ he exclaimed, as he rose and held them out to her. She was hesitating just a little, not entirely from coyness, but because it is so sweet to dally with our happiness—when a low murmuring sound, like the first menacing tones of thunder, or the moaning of a sleuthhound when it finds the trail, which evidently proceeded from the negroes’ quarters, made them start asunder, and change colour.

‘What was that?’ demanded Lizzie, under her breath, as Hugh Norris threw his arm round her for protection.

‘It is the groaning of a crowd,’ he answered. ‘It is the first note of mutiny. Lizzie, there is something wrong! For God’s sake, let me take you away from this.’

But she struggled to free herself.

‘If they are rising, Hugh, let me go to them! No one understands them as I do! Let me speak, and they will obey me! I can do with them as I like.’

But before he had time to put into words his entreaty that she would resign herself to his protection, a piercing shriek seemed to rend the evening air, and the next minute Rosa, the yellow girl, rushed into the room, with Maraquita’s infant in her arms.

‘Oh, Missy Liz,’ she cried, ‘what have they done to my baby? Dis crowd of niggers is all cryin’ out for dere rights, and down with de planters, and I coming along, and dey pulled de poor baby from my arms, and hit it on de head with a stone. Oh, Missy Liz, I couldn’t help it! I screamed to dem to leave my poor baby alone! But dey call out ’tis Missy Quita’s chile and Massa Courcelles’, and den dey strike it again. And the baby’s berry sick, Missy Liz—berry sick, indeed,’ continued Rosa, weeping, and rocking the bundle in her arms.

‘Give it to me,’ said Lizzie calmly, though her face was deathly white, but not so white as that of Maraquita’s infant, which lay calm and peaceful in the sleep of death, with a discoloured bruise upon its little forehead, where the cruel stone had struck it.

‘She is dead!’ said Lizzie solemnly, as she placed the body on the table. She did not shed a tear as she did so, but Hugh Norris, looking up at her, marked the deep lines which suppressed emotion had drawn upon her forehead, and thought he had never seen her look so stern before.

‘My poor little Mary,’ she said, in a low voice, as she gazed upon the infant’s dead form. ‘This is the first-fruits of the Beauregard rebellion, Hugh! They have risen at last, and they will not stop here! What will become of them all at the White House?’

‘We must give the alarm at once,’ said Captain Norris. ‘They may not be prepared for this outbreak. But Lizzie, I will not go and leave you here! If you wish your friends to be put on their guard, you must come with me.’

‘It is too late,’ she answered: ‘they are already upon us! We should only walk into their midst. Listen to that—’

She held up her finger, and Captain Norris could distinctly hear the yelling of a mob of coolies advancing on the plantation, and see the flaming torches which they carried in their hands, whilst in another moment two or three random shots proved that they were carrying firearms, and prepared to use them.’

‘The devils!’ cried Norris. ‘Is it possible they can have the heart to injure you, after all you have done for them?’

‘No, no, massa!’ exclaimed the yellow girl; ‘coolies never hurting Missy Liz; they love her too much for dat. Only dey want revenge on Massa Courtney and de Governor and Missy Quita. Missy Liz, dey will fire de White House for sure, and kill de Governor! Hark! they hab passed oder side of plantation. Dey go by Oleander Bungalow to de big house, and nebber come near Missy Liz at all.’

‘They have come near enough, in killing my poor baby!’ exclaimed Lizzie, weeping, as she kissed the dead child. ‘If they love me, why couldn’t they have spared her?’

‘’Cause she belong to dat De Courcelles, and grow up bad like him and Missy Quita. Dat what dem trashy niggers say,’ replied Rosa, joining her sobs to those of her mistress.

‘Is it possible this child belongs to Lady Johnstone?’ demanded Norris.

‘Oh, hush, Hugh! don’t mention it, even here!’ said Lizzie. ‘I have kept the secret for her sake—not his!’

‘Oh, my brave girl, your love has indeed earned the martyr’s crown!’ he answered, looking at her with the deepest admiration and respect. ‘But hark, Lizzie! Surely the mob have turned this way.’

At that moment a kind of sudden rush through the darkness outside was followed by the entrance of Mr and Mrs Courtney, with Maraquita and Sir Russell Johnstone! The women were in their evening dresses—half fainting with fear, and their protectors were almost as agitated as themselves.

‘Lizzie,’ cried Mr Courtney, ‘give us shelter, for God’s sake! Hide us in your rooms, and this murderous crew will not dare to follow us there. They are fond of you, Lizzie, and they will believe what you say. Make them hear reason, in Heaven’s name! or we shall all be slaughtered before your eyes!’

‘Quick! quick! in here!’ she exclaimed, as she thrust the whole party into her own bedroom, and closed the door. ‘Go with them, Hugh,’ she said, when they had concealed themselves, ‘and let me bring these mutineers to reason.’

‘And leave you to fall a prey to their baffled wrath, or become a billet for the first bullet that strays this way, Lizzie,’ he answered tenderly. ‘No, my dear. You have said you love me; and if we have to die, we will die together.’

Before she could answer him, a crew of dusky faces were surrounding the bungalow, blocking up the verandah, pressing into the doors, and filling up the framework of the windows.

‘Whar’s de Gubnor and de planter? Is dem in hiding here?’ they shouted. ‘Gib dem up, Missy Liz, or we must enter de bungalow, and we doesn’t want to do dat. Gib dem up, missy, and don’t you be skeered—no nigger hurting one hair ob your head.’

‘I’m not afraid of you for myself, my friends,’ she exclaimed, standing out boldly to the front, and facing the crowd of rebels, ‘for you have always been good and kind to me; but if you love me, you will go away to your own quarters, and leave my house alone!’

‘D’rectly we finds de Gubnor and de planter, Missy Liz. But we’se sworn to ruin dem, and we must do it—dat’s so!’

‘And de Gubnor’s wife!’ shrieked a female voice, that might be heard all over the bungalow. ‘Dat gal what pretends to be so good, and dat is de moder of dat baby you keep, Missy Liz. She and Massa Courcelles know all about dat chile; and I wish dey could swing together!’

‘Hush, Jerusha, hush! Go away, and keep your evil tongue to yourself!’ cried Lizzie.

‘Dat’s true, and you know it, Missy Liz. And de Governor shall know it, too, and Massa Courtney, and all de world, dat she am no better than de poor coolie gals what go all wrong.’

‘Jerusha, I implore you, for God’s sake!’ commenced Lizzie again.

But before she could finish her entreaty, Maraquita had pushed open the bedroom door, and stood beside her, pale and trembling, but not courageous, except with the courage born of despair.

‘It is true!’ she gasped, rather than said, ‘and I am ready to confess it. No, Lizzie, don’t try to prevent my speaking. Everybody may hear me now. I can suffer in secret no longer. Father, I am not what you thought me! I am a sinful girl, and I have let the burden of my shameful secret rest on Lizzie’s shoulders. These people only say what is true. They hate me for what I have done, and want to revenge themselves on us all, for my sake. Perhaps, now that I have confessed my sin, they will pity and forgive me.’

She sunk exhausted with fear and shame on Lizzie’s shoulder as she finished her recital. Sir Russell Johnstone and her parents were standing by, horror-struck by what they had heard, and forgetful of their own safety in the agony of witnessing her humiliation. But Lizzie was the only person who addressed her.

‘Hush, Quita, you have said enough; and surely all will think you have suffered sufficiently, and need no further punishment.’

But the continual groaning and muttering of the crowd outside did not seem as though their anger was appeased, and Quita shuddered as she heard it.

‘Give me my child!’ she exclaimed wildly. ‘Everything is slipping from me. My father and mother stand by in silence, my husband will drive me from his house. Give me something that I can call my own! Lizzie, I want my child!’

‘There is your child, Quita,’ replied her adopted sister sadly, as she led her to the table. ‘God has already called it through their hands to Himself. They would not leave you even that poor consolation, my unhappy Quita.’

‘Dead!’ cried the unfortunate Lady Russell, as she gazed upon her infant’s breathless form, ‘dead! Oh, Henri, Henri, why was I ever untrue to you, and to myself? My punishment is harder than I can bear.’

As she sunk upon her knees, and her pitiful cry of ‘Henri’ sounded on the air, De Courcelles, unable to restrain his feelings longer, burst open his prison door and rushed in upon them.

‘Yes,’ he exclaimed triumphantly, as he glared round upon the parents and husband of Maraquita, ‘she speaks the truth at last. I had sworn to have her life, in exchange for that of which she has robbed me; but she has avenged herself. Take me prisoner again, as soon as you like. I shall die contented, to know what her future life must be.’

‘Dey nebber take you!’ cried a shrill voice at the open casement, which was immediately followed by a shot, which brought Henri de Courcelles to the ground.

‘Jerusha!’ he muttered between his teeth as he fell, with the dark blood and froth bubbling from his lips.

Lizzie was at his side in a moment tearing away his shirt, and striving to stem the current of his life. But it was in vain. The overseer had met his fate at last, and was rapidly bleeding to death.

‘Henri,’ she cried, in a voice of distress, ‘I can do nothing for you! You are going to God! May He bless and forgive you.’

‘As—you—have—done,’ he gasped out, as his lifeless head fell from her arm.

Sir Russell Johnstone had stood by, stern and miserable, watching the pitiable sight, and listening to the confession which dashed all the brightness from his married life, but Maraquita and her parents had hidden themselves away, unable to bear such a strain upon their nervous systems. Hugh Norris seeing that all was over, came forward to take Lizzie in his arms; but she turned from him, and walked bravely into the midst of the mutineers. Their flaring torches fell full on her ashen face, and lighted up the large tears standing in her eyes; but she stood before them without one sign of fear, and her voice was loud and determined.

‘Are you satisfied now?’ she demanded boldly, ‘or are not two lives sufficient to gorge your lust for blood? Do you know what you have done? You say you love me, and would not harm a hair of my head, yet you have killed the man you knew was dear to me! You have made me risk my life in vain. Two days ago I walked into the Alligator Swamp alone, to find Henri de Courcelles, and save him from the gallows, and I brought him here, only to fall a victim to your barbarity. Was that love for me? And the poor baby too—the little innocent child that I was bringing up as my own, and that had never done you any harm, you must needs take that from me too. Now, what more do you want? Is it my own life? You may as well kill me as well as the rest. Perhaps I am not more worthy to live, in your estimation, than they were.’

At this harangue, the ringleaders of the mutiny drew back abashed. They had not calculated that in taking their revenge on Henri de Courcelles they would injure their ‘Missy Liz.’

‘Missy Liz, no talking like dat,’ said an aged negro, speaking for the rest. ‘Missy know we lub her, and call her de Good Angel ob Beauregard.’

‘Then if you love me, coolies, prove it by what you do. Give up this hateful mutiny against those who only desire your good, and let the Governor, and Mr and Mrs Courtney, return to the White House in peace. If you don’t, I warn you my life will be the sacrifice, for you shall trample over my body before you enter the bungalow in search of them.’

She placed her two hands on the lintels of the doorposts as she spoke, to bar their way, and the negroes saw she was in earnest.

‘Go back to your quarters, my friends,’ she continued, in a softer voice. ‘In my name, and the name of all whom I love, I beg of you to return quietly to your homes, and relinquish your murderous design.’

‘For your sake den, Missy Liz, for your sake,’ replied the coolies, as, startled, and somewhat ashamed of themselves, for they had no real cause of complaint, and had only been incited on by the example of others, the crowd broke up into groups, and commenced to walk back slowly to their homes. And then Lizzie turned round, and threw herself weeping into Hugh Norris’s arms.

The End