Before she turned her head to greet him, Liz knew _who_ had entered the
bungalow. The marvellous instinct of love made her _feel_ his presence,
before she perceived it, and this instinct, common to all human nature,
was deeply engrafted in that of Liz Fellows. She had a heart that not
only wound itself round that of those she loved but entered into it,
and made its home there, and she loved Henri de Courcelles with all the
strength and passion of which she was capable. Their attachment had
commenced more than a year before, when she and her father had brought
De Courcelles through a dangerous illness, and Liz had nursed him into
convalescence with the tenderest care, and the young man had rewarded
her devotion with a confession of love, which she believed to be as
genuine as her own. Before he rose from his bed of sickness Henri de
Courcelles had pledged himself to marry Liz Fellows, and at the time
perhaps had honestly wished to do so. But there were obstacles in the
way of an immediate union, and the engagement had never been publicly
announced. Henri de Courcelles was a man whose personal appearance
would have proved sufficient justification in most women’s eyes for
Liz’s excessive love for him. From his French father he had inherited
a strength of limb and muscle, and a symmetry of proportion, which
is not common amongst tropical nations, whilst his beautiful Creole
mother had given him her Spanish eyes and colouring, with a little
trace--though too slight to be offensive--of her African blood. Taken
altogether, Henri de Courcelles was a very handsome and athletic young
fellow, and with an easy grace about his bearing and mode of expressing
himself that made him very fascinating. That his visits to her father’s
bungalow had been shorter and less frequent of late had never struck
Liz as remarkable until Captain Norris had drawn her attention to the
probable reason.
She was not of a jealous temperament, and where we love and fear to
lose, we will hatch up any excuse to lull our doubts to rest, sooner
than wrong the creature on whom all our hopes are fixed. Besides,
Liz was too busy a woman to spend her days sighing over an absent
lover. When she was not mixing and dispensing medicines, or visiting
her patients, or reading the medical works recommended by her father,
she had her household affairs to look after, or needlework to do,
and oftener longed for more time than for less. And De Courcelles
was a busy man also. She would hardly have liked him if he had not
been so. He was overseer on the coffee plantation of the rich planter
Mr Courtney, on whose estate Dr Fellows lived, and had the complete
control and _surveillance_ of the negro population. It made Liz’s
heart grieve sometimes to hear the coolies complain of his harshness
and severity. She did not believe in her heart that Henri _could_ be
unjust to any one and thought the negroes only wished to escape the
punishments they had incurred--still she could not help wishing, with
a sigh, that he had the power to control them without punishment.
But of course _he_ could not be in the wrong--not entirely, that is
to say. As she recognised his footstep on the present occasion, and
all the painful doubt she was experiencing fled like magic before the
pleasure of his presence, any one with a knowledge of physiognomy
could have read how the woman loved him. Her pale face flushed with
expectation--her quiet eyes glowed with fire--her whole frame trembled
in acknowledgment of the man’s supremacy over her. But as he advanced
to the centre of the room and she could discern his features, Liz
started with concern.
‘Henri! what is the matter? Are you ill?’
‘Ill! No,’ he answered pettishly, as he flung himself into a chair.
‘You are so mixed up with your pills and potions, Liz, that you can
never imagine any other cause for a man’s moods than illness. I’m right
enough. What should ail me?’
‘Ah! this dreadful fever, Henri. Forgive me if I am nervous for the
safety of you and all whom I love. It strikes down its victims like a
plague, and its terrible rapidity frightens me. It makes one feel so
helpless. Sometimes it takes but a few hours to carry off its victims.
I have been at three deathbeds to-day. It is enough to make a woman
tremble at the least symptom of illness in her own people. And the
epidemic seems to be on the increase. Nothing that my father does seems
to stop it.’
‘Well, try and find some livelier topic of conversation, Liz, for
mercy’s sake. It’s enough to give any fellow the blues to hear you
talk. I wish to goodness you followed some other calling, or rather
none at all; but since it is unavoidable, spare me the nauseous
details. I have enough worries of my own without discussing your
professional difficulties.’
Her sympathy was roused at once.
‘What worries, dear? Tell me of them. Can I do nothing to help you out
of them?’
He coloured slightly under his dark skin as he stretched himself and
said,--
‘Nothing--nothing. They are matters of a purely private nature. But you
know how I detest the coloured people, Liz. It is sufficiently annoying
to me to be employed amongst the brutes all day long, without having to
listen to a story of their grievances when my work is over. I come here
for rest, not to talk about niggers.’
‘Yes, I know, Henri, and it makes me happy to hear you say that you
expect to find rest with me. But if you saw them suffer as I do, you
could not fail to feel for them. Have you been very busy lately?’
‘Pretty well. Why do you ask?’
‘Because it is a week since you have been at the cottage.’
‘You must be mistaken. I have called here several times when you were
out. There’s no finding you at home now-a-days, Liz.’
‘I have been very much occupied, I know,’ she answered quietly, ‘but
not so much so as to make me forget that you have not been here, Henri.’
The remembrance of what Captain Norris had repeated to her recurred to
her mind, and on the spur of the moment she determined to learn the
truth.
‘You have been a great deal at the White House, have you not?’ she
continued.
He flushed again, and turned uneasily in his chair, so as to avoid the
straightforward glance of her eyes.
‘Why do you ask me that question? I am at the White House every morning
with my employer. It is part of my business to go there.’
‘I don’t mean at Mr Courtney’s office, Henri. I meant that you are a
great deal with Mrs Courtney and Maraquita--at least I have been told
so.’
‘I am much obliged to whoever was kind enough to interest himself in
my private affairs. Am I indebted to your old flame Captain Norris for
spreading untruths about me? I met him skulking round the bungalow as I
came along this evening.’
‘Captain Norris does not _skulk_’, replied Liz quickly. ‘He has no need
to do so. Neither is he a “flame” of mine, and you ought to know me
better than to say so, Henri.’
‘Well, it looks like it, when you take up the cudgels so warmly in his
defence. However, we’ll let that drop. What has he been telling you
against me?’
‘Nothing--or at least nothing of his own accord. He only repeated the
common rumour--that you are a great deal in the society of Maraquita,
and that--that people are talking about it.’
She stood for a few moments after that, expecting to hear an indignant
denial from his lips, but De Courcelles was silent.
‘Henri,’ she continued softly, turning a very pale face towards him,
‘it is not _true_?’
‘What is not true?’ he inquired brusquely.
‘That--that you are tired of me, and making love to Maraquita Courtney.’
‘Of course it isn’t true; it’s a d--d lie, and the next time I meet
that Norris, I’ll break every bone in his body for saying so.’
She was all penitence for having suspected his fidelity in a moment.
She flung herself on her knees beside his chair, and threw one arm
around his shoulders.
‘Oh, Henri! forgive me for having repeated such a slander, but it hurt
me so, I couldn’t keep it to myself. But it was not Captain Norris’s
fault. He only told me what he had heard in the town. He did not think,
perhaps, that it was of so much consequence to me. And I know that you
_are_ very intimate at the White House; more so even than I am.’
‘Well, Mrs Courtney is very civil to me, and I can hardly refuse her
hospitality, on the plea that I am engaged to be married, can I?’
‘No! No! of course not. But still--though I am _sure_ that you are true
to me,’ cried the woman, fighting against her own horrible suspicions
(for why should you have asked me to marry you, unless you loved me?)
still, Maraquita is very lovely, and she _likes_ you, Henri, I am
certain of that. No! don’t interrupt me! Let me say all I have to say
to the end, and then perhaps I shall forget it. You see, dear, I--I am
not beautiful (how I wish, for _your_ sake, that I were), and there
is nothing in me worthy of your affection, except my love! And I have
seen something of men in my lifetime, and I can understand something
of their temptations. Quita has been a flirt from a little child. Who
should know it better than myself, who have been like a sister to her
from her birth? I was only five years old when my father brought me to
live at Beauregard, and Quita was not born for two years after that. I
remember so well the first visit I paid to the White House to see the
wonderful new baby, and how proud I was when old Jessica let me hold
her in my arms--’
‘Stop!’ exclaimed De Courcelles authoritatively. ‘What has all this to
do with me? I have no interest in these details about Miss Courtney’s
birth.’
‘I only mentioned it to show you how well I must know Maraquita’s
character. We have grown up together, Henri, and I can almost read
her thoughts. She likes you more than a friend, and when I heard the
rumours about you, I felt as if I could have no chance against her.’
Henri de Courcelles had risen from his seat during her last words,
almost shaking off her caressing hand in his impatience, and stood
beside her, white and angry.
‘I will hear no more of this nonsense,’ he cried; ‘I have told you
already it is a lie, and you insult me by repeating it. Miss Courtney
and I are nothing to each other, and it will ruin me with my employer
if this absurd report gains ground. I shall get kicked out of
Beauregard for nothing at all, and then all chance of our marriage will
be at an end, and I shall probably have to leave San Diego.’
‘It will not gain ground through _my_ means, and I am only too glad to
know that it is not true,’ replied Liz, rising to her feet also.
She would have liked him to have put his arms round her and assured
her with a kiss it was all an error, but she was too proud to show the
blank disappointment that crept over her. Henri had denied the scandal,
and she was bound to believe him, but still she was not satisfied,
though she could hardly have given a reason for it.
‘Of course--of course--I _knew_ it was not true,’ she repeated, in
a quivering voice, as she tried to persuade herself that all was
right between them. ‘For once you _promised_ me--do you remember it,
Henri?--that if any one ever came between us, you would let me know, so
that at any rate I should retain your confidence, even if I lost your
love.’
‘You harp so much on the question of losing my love,’ he replied
angrily, ‘that you make me think you have no further use for it.’
Liz looked bewildered.
‘Oh! what have I said to make you speak like that?’ she exclaimed.
‘When have I let you think that I was weary of you--we who have agreed
to pass our lives together? Oh, Henri! is it my fault? Has this
misunderstanding sprung from my apparent coldness? If so--forgive me!
For indeed--_indeed_--’ continued Liz earnestly--all her reticence
vanishing before the fear of offending her lover, ‘I am not cold. I
have so much important work to do, and serious things to think of,
that I am afraid sometimes to let my thoughts dwell too much on our
affection, lest I should not keep my mind clear. But that is not
indifference. It is too much love,’ she said, in a faltering voice.
‘I have never doubted your love,’ replied De Courcelles, softened by
the sound of her tearful voice, ‘and I don’t want you to doubt mine,
and especially not to listen to tales that have no foundation, and are
calculated to injure my reputation. Maraquita Courtney is nothing to
me, and never has been, and never will be. You may take my word for
that!’
‘Will you swear it?’ cried Liz eagerly.
He hesitated a moment, and then he said,--
‘Yes, I swear it by the God Who made us both!’
The woman dropped down into her chair again, and burst into a flood of
hysterical tears.
‘Oh! I _felt_ it! I _knew_ it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have been so happy
in the possession of your love. I was sure that Heaven could not be so
cruel as to take it away from me.’
The young man crossed over to her, and laid his hand upon her bent head.
‘No! no!’ he said soothingly. ‘No one shall take it away. You are not
like yourself to-night, Liz. Where is all your courage gone to? You,
who can stand by quietly and see an operation performed, or a patient
die, who are the coolest and most collected woman I have ever met with.
Why! I don’t _know_ you in this new character.’
‘I _have_ no courage where you are concerned,’ she answered
passionately, as she looked up and met the glance of his dark eyes.
‘You are my life, Henri, and everything that is best in me, would die
without you.’
He winced a little as she spoke, but he professed to laugh at her
vehemence.
‘It will not be my fault if you are ever put to the test, Liz. How
often have I told you that my life belongs to you, since, without your
skill and care, I should have lost it. Come, kiss me, and forget what
has passed between us. It is all the fault of that meddling fellow
Norris. I wish he had been farther before he made mischief between us.’
‘No one has the power to make mischief between us,’ said Liz, smiling
through her tears. ‘I am quite happy again now, and am only sorry my
foolish jealousy should have betrayed me into making such a scene.
And, to prove it, let us talk of Quita, Henri. I was wanting to see
you, just to ask after her.’
‘Can’t we find some pleasanter topic of conversation, Liz? Besides, you
know more of Miss Courtney than I could tell you.’
‘No! That is just where it is. I have hardly seen anything of her
since the fever broke out. Father is not quite certain whether it is
contagious or not, and whilst there is a doubt, he thinks it better
I should keep away from the White House. But old Jessica says that
Quita is not looking at all well, and she is afraid there is something
serious the matter with her.’
De Courcelles fired up again directly.
‘Curse the old fool! What business is it of hers how she looks! It’s
this infernal tittle-tattle from house to house, that makes all the
mischief in the world.’
‘Oh, Henri! You forget Jessica was Quita’s nurse. Why, she loves her
like her own child, and she says she has been very depressed lately,
and is often crying. What should make her cry, Henri? Has she any
trouble?’
‘Don’t ask me! How should I know?’ he answered roughly. ‘Miss Courtney
is not likely to confide her troubles to her father’s overseer. But I
see no difference in her.’
‘Perhaps it is only Jessica’s anxiety,’ said Liz thoughtfully. ‘But
I am always dreaming of this fever, and Maraquita is too delicate to
battle against it. I wish Mr Courtney would send her out of the island
until it is dispersed.’
‘You don’t think of going yourself, though.’
‘_I!_ Oh, dear no! I _should_ be a coward to run away from these poor
people when I can be of use to them. But Maraquita is different. She
has nothing to do but to think of the trouble and brood over it, and
she is easily alarmed. She would be much better away.’
‘I suppose if her parents thought so they would send her. They have
sufficient money to do anything. But we have discussed the subject
enough, Liz, and I am weary of it. Where is your father?’
‘Here he is,’ replied Liz, in a brisk and cheerful tone, as Dr Fellows
entered the bungalow.
Whatever her own doubts and imaginings, she was always cheerful before
her father, for he seemed to carry a weight through life that would
break him down, unless sustained by his daughter’s strength of mind.
Dr Fellows was a man of about fifty years of age, but he looked
older. His figure was bent and attenuated, his hair nearly white, his
features lined with care and yellow from ill-health. No one to see
them together could have believed him to be the father of the healthy
and finely-formed young woman who advanced to meet him. The frank,
ingenuous expression on his daughter’s face contrasted pleasantly with
his reserved and somewhat morose physiognomy. He hardly smiled as she
took his broad-brimmed Panama hat and stick from him, and kissed him
on the forehead. The doctor was dressed in a complete suit of white
nankeen, and his face was scarcely less white than his clothes.
‘You look very tired, father!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘Have you been far from
the plantation to-night, and are there any fresh cases?’
‘I walked to the other side of Shanty Hill, to see a child of Mathy
Jones, but I was too late. The fever had set in with convulsions, and
it was dead before I arrived. And poor old Ben is gone too, Liz; Mr
Latham’s faithful old servant. I would have given all I am worth to
save him, but I failed to do so. I think my right hand must have lost
its cunning,’ said the Doctor, in a tone of deep depression.
‘No, no! father! It is nothing of the sort. You are overtired with your
constant work, or you would not think of such nonsense. Let me mix you
a white wine sherbet, you seem quite exhausted. And here is Henri, so
talk of something else, and divert your thoughts.’
‘How are you, Monsieur de Courcelles? We have not seen much of you
lately,’ said Dr Fellows languidly.
The indifference with which he spoke, showed that he did not care much
for his intended son-in-law. Indeed, excepting that he believed his
daughter to possess a much clearer and more practical head than his
own, he never would have sanctioned the engagement. But Lizzie loved
him, so the Doctor argued--and believed in him, and therefore it must
be all right. Lizzie was too sensible to make a mistake about it. The
Doctor forgot, or was ignorant of the fact, that the cleverest women
often make the greatest fools of themselves where their hearts are
concerned, and their vivid imaginations make them believe those they
love to be all they could wish them. The handsome, _nonchalant_ young
Frenchman did not appear much better pleased to meet Dr Fellows than
he did to see him, but he considered it worth his while to refute his
assertion.
‘That has been your fault more than mine,’ he replied airily. ‘I was
just telling your daughter that I have made several attempts to find
you at home, without success. My time is not my own, you know, any more
than yours.’
‘Oh, if Liz is satisfied, I am sure _I_ am!’ retorted Dr Fellows.
‘It is all right, father, Henri and I perfectly understand each other,’
interposed his daughter cheerfully. ‘But had you not better go and lie
down, father? I don’t like that heavy look in your eyes; and you may be
called up again at any hour of the night. Do take some rest whilst you
can.’
‘You are right, my dear,’ replied the Doctor, staggering to his feet;
‘I really want rest. But you will go to bed, too, Lizzie. You will not
sit up too late with Monsieur de Courcelles?’
‘There is no fear of that, for I am going at once,’ said the young man,
as he rose to his feet. ‘Good-night, Doctor; good-night, Liz. I shall
look in upon you again to-morrow.’
He nodded to each of them as he passed out into the night air, and
Liz looked after his handsome lithe figure, as it disappeared behind
the clump of mango trees, with a sigh of love and regret. But there
was nothing but affectionate solicitude patent in her manner as she
proffered her arm to support her father to his room.
‘Father, you are trembling like a leaf. I think I shall give you a
little quinine. By the way, have you heard any news from the White
House to-day? Are they all well?’
‘I trust so. I have heard nothing to the contrary; and I saw Mr
Courtney as usual this morning. What makes you ask me, my dear?’
‘Because Jessica said that Maraquita looked ill.’
‘It can be nothing serious, or I should have heard of it. Probably
the effects of this intense heat, and the unhealthy state of the
atmosphere. But they are well provided with disinfectants at the White
House, and Mr Courtney will not permit his wife or daughter to enter
the plantation. They always drive on the other side of the island.’
‘That accounts for my not having seen either of them for so long,’ said
Lizzie, as she left her father to lie down, dressed as he was, and try
to gain a much-needed repose.
[Illustration]