Liz stood where he had left her, awestruck and bewildered. All her
private trouble of that evening--the sickening doubts she had conceived
of her lover’s fidelity, and her fears for Maraquita’s safety--faded
before the humbling truths she had just heard. _This_, then, was the
solution of the riddle which had so long puzzled her--the meaning
of her father’s secret anxiety and depression. He was a criminal,
whose crime was known to the law, and who had only escaped justice
by yielding up his birthright and hiding on the plantation of his
benefactor, Mr Courtney. It was a _very_ bitter truth to swallow.
Liz wondered how much Mrs Courtney and Maraquita knew of their
disgrace, and what revulsion of feeling it might not cause in the
breast of Henri de Courcelles. The thought of her lover caused a sharp
pang to Lizzie. What terrible thing was about to happen in the future
for her with regard to him? Her father’s revelation had raised a new
barrier between them--one which honour compelled her to feel could
never be surmounted until she was permitted to reveal it; and what
consequences might not follow such a confession. As Liz pondered on
the difficulties in her path, she shivered to hear the keening of the
night breeze as it sighed through the branches of the coffee trees,
and the far-off wailing which could occasionally be heard from the
negroes’ huts. They seemed like a requiem over the ashes of her love
and blighted hope.
The tears were standing on her cheeks when she was roused from her
reverie by the opening of the door, and her father stood before her
again.
‘Do you want me?’ she said quickly.
Dr Fellows answered her in a tone of portentous gravity,--
‘Yes, Liz, though not in the way you imagine. Set your mind at rest
concerning Maraquita. There is nothing to be alarmed at about her.
But you must execute a commission at once for me. You must carry this
basket to Mammy Lila on the Shanty Hill.’
Liz glanced at the large basket which her father carried in his hand,
with astonishment.
‘I am to go to the Shanty Hill to-night, father? Do you know that it is
five miles away, and it is just two o’clock? Cannot it wait until the
morning?’
‘If it could have waited till the morning I should not have told you to
take it now,’ replied the Doctor sternly. ‘Have you already forgotten
your own acknowledgment that we owe (if necessary) our very lives to
Edward Courtney.’
‘But what has this to do with Mr Courtney?’
‘Ask no questions, but do as I bid you. If any one else could do
the work as well as yourself, I should not trouble you, Liz. But I
can trust no one but you. Carry the basket to Mammy Lila’s hut, and
leave it there. Tell her it comes from me, and my message to her is
“_Silence and secrecy_.”’
‘I will go,’ said Lizzie shortly, as she took the basket from her
father’s hand.
‘Go by the path that skirts the outer plantation, and cross the ravine
by Dorrian’s glen; it is the shorter way,’ continued Dr Fellows; and
then suddenly twisting his daughter round so as to look into her face,
he asked her,--‘Have you any fear? It is dangerous traversing these
roads by night, and alone. There may be snakes across the path, or
panthers lurking in the thickets. Are you sure you are not afraid?’
The contemptuous curl of Liz’s lip showed him the futility of the
question.
‘_Afraid!_’ she echoed. ‘When have you ever known me afraid yet?
Besides, if this is to be done for _Mr Courtney_, my life is at his
service.’
‘More than your life, Lizzie--your sacred honour. Remember your oath,
never to reveal what you may hear, see, or suspect this night.’
‘I have not forgotten it,’ said his daughter briefly, as she threw a
mantle over her shoulders, and left the cottage with her burden.
It was with strange feelings that she set out to accomplish her errand.
The tropical night could hardly be called dark, for the deep blue
firmament was set with myriads of stars, but the dusky glens and leafy
coverts were full of shadows, sufficient to mask the unexpected spring
of wild cat or panther, or to conceal the poisonous asp wriggling
through the grass on which she trod.
Yet she went bravely on, her only means of defence a stout stick with
which she stirred the leaves in her path, in order to unearth a hidden
enemy.
The covered basket she bore was rather heavy, and she had no knowledge
what it contained. Most women would have asked the question before they
started--many would have untied and opened it as soon as they were out
of sight. Liz did neither. A horrible suspicion had entered her mind,
which she was fighting against with all her might, and it left no room
for idle curiosity. On the contrary, she dreaded lest some accident
should reveal the contents of the basket to her. She did not wish to
ascertain them. She felt intuitively that the knowledge would be the
cause of fresh unhappiness. So she walked rapidly and without a pause
to Shanty Hill, though the five miles seemed very long without the
landmarks familiar to her by daylight, and her feet were very weary
before she got there.
Mammy Lila was an old negress who had acquired some repute as a
herbalist, and was much sought after by the Coolie population to
doctor their children. She was the _sage-femme_ of Beauregard, and had
helped Liz on many an occasion to usher the poor little dusky mites
of humanity into a world which waited to welcome them with stripes
and hard work. Mammy Lila was a seer into the bargain, and expectant
brides and mothers were wont to go to her to read what fortune lay in
the future for them. She was an old woman now, and rather infirm, but
Dr Fellows had faith in her good sense and discretion, as he evinced on
this occasion. The immediate approach to her hut was up a steep bit of
hill, covered with loose stones, and as Lizzie, weary with mental and
physical fatigue, toiled up it, she stumbled against an obstacle in her
path, and shook the basket in her hand, from which issued in another
second the feeble wailing cry of a new-born infant. Liz almost dropped
the basket in her surprise. She had feared it, but she had resolved
_not_ to believe it, and now her worst suspicions were confirmed. She
stood still for a moment, trembling at the discovery she had made, and
then recommenced almost to _run_ up the rocky hill, as though she would
run from the horror that assailed her. Panting with the exertions she
had made, and almost speechless with dismay, she entered the negress’s
hut, white, scared, and hardly able to express herself. Mammy Lila
was in bed, and had to be roused by repeated attacks upon her door,
and when she answered the summons she was scarcely awake enough to
understand what was said to her.
‘Missy Liz!’ she exclaimed in her surprise; ‘who bad now? Not little
Cora, sure! Dat chile not due for three week yet.’
‘No, no, Mammy! I have not come for that,’ said Lizzie, in a faint
voice. ‘The Doctor sent me. He said I was to give you _this_,’ placing
the basket on the floor, ‘and to say his message to you is “_Silence
and secrecy_.”’
‘Ah! good Doctor know he can trust Mammy Lila,’ replied the old
negress, as she began to untie the basket lid. ‘And what is this, Missy
Liz--a baby?’
‘I don’t know--I don’t want to know--don’t ask me!’ cried Liz Fellows,
as she turned quickly away. ‘Only remember father’s message, “_Silence
and secrecy_,”’ and with that she ran quickly down the uneven rocky
path again.
The loose stones rolled away from under her feet, and hurt them in
her rapid descent, but she cared nothing at that moment for pain or
inconvenience. All her desire was to get out of sight and out of
hearing, and forget if possible the horrid task that had been imposed
upon her. Maraquita--whom she had known from babyhood, and believed to
be so innocent and pure, to have subjected herself to this penalty of
shame. It seemed too awful and incredible a thought to be dwelt upon.
Liz remembered, as she ran hurriedly homewards, how she had blamed poor
heedless Rosa for the same fault,--how sternly she had reproved the
ignorant yellow girl, who knew no better than to follow the instincts
of her fallen nature, for her depravity, and told her she ought to
have had more principle, and a better sense of right and wrong, than to
yield to such a temptation. But Maraquita, so much beloved, so tenderly
watched, so closely guarded, how could _she_ have so deceived her
friends and lowered herself; and _who_ could have been so base as to
lead her astray? This discovery, terribly as it affected Liz, cleared
her lover’s character at once in her eyes; and even in the midst of
her pain, she could not help breathing a sigh of thankfulness to think
that Henri de Courcelles was innocent of the charge imputed to him. He
could never have been flirting with the planter’s daughter whilst she
had conceived a serious affection for some one else. Liz recalled the
fervour of his oath with secret satisfaction; it was no wonder indeed
that he felt justified in taking it, and she felt ashamed of the
jealous spirit that had forced it from him.
But her thoughts soon reverted to her adopted sister, and she
burned with resentment against her unknown betrayer. Her vow to Dr
Fellows--which she felt to be as sacred as though uttered before God’s
throne; the revelation which had been made to her that evening of their
own disgrace; pity for her friend’s misfortune, and love for Henri
de Courcelles, were all warring in her breast, and making her mind a
chaos, as, wearied and panting, she stumbled over the threshold of her
father’s bungalow. She expected to find him alone with Quita,--to be
able to tell him of her hopes and fears,--but, to her consternation,
the room was full, and as she paused in the open doorway, her white and
anxious face made her look like a guilty person. Mr and Mrs Courtney,
with the old black nurse Jessica, were all there, and Dr Fellows was
talking earnestly to them. As he caught sight of his daughter, he
turned to meet her.
‘_You know all_,’ he whispered sternly, as he looked into her sad eyes,
and squeezed her hand as in a vice. ‘_Remember your oath._’
‘Why, is that Lizzie?’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney from the sofa, where she
lay extended. ‘I thought she was nursing our poor Quita. Whatever has
she been doing out of doors at this time of night?’
‘She has been to fetch me some necessary drugs,’ replied the Doctor
quickly.
Mrs Courtney had been a beautiful creature in her youth, but though
not forty years of age, she had already lost all pretensions to good
looks. She was corpulent and ungainly. Her large sleepy black eyes
were sunk in a round face, with a yellow complexion, and triple chins.
Her waving black hair was twisted untidily at the back of her head, and
her abundant figure, unrestrained by belt or corset, was enveloped in a
loose dressing-gown. But she rolled off the sofa nimbly enough when she
heard the voice of Liz Fellows.
‘Oh, Liz!’ she exclaimed, grasping her hand, ‘this is terrible news the
Doctor has to give us; our darling Quita down with the fever. Fancy
the dear child rambling to your house in her delirium! What a mercy
she had sufficient sense left to guide her. She might have walked into
the river. You may fancy what we felt when we heard that she was gone.
Jessica found it out first when she went into her room with some iced
sherbet, for Quita has been very restless at night lately. I suppose it
was this horrid fever coming on, but she has been quite out of sorts
for some weeks past. But oh! Lizzie, how _can_ she have caught it?’
This long harangue had given Lizzie an opportunity to recover her
equanimity, and she was able to reply quite calmly,--
‘It is quite impossible to say, dear Mrs Courtney; but father does not
think seriously of the case, and so you must not be too anxious about
her.’
‘But he will not let us even _look_ at the dear child. Dr Fellows, I
really think you are _too_ particular. Surely her parents have the
_right_ to see her.’
‘Certainly, my dear madam, if you insist upon it; but I think Mr
Courtney will uphold my decision. I have not been able to determine if
this fever which is decimating your plantation is contagious or not. I
rather fancy it is epidemic, but it is impossible to say, because it
is of no known character. It is surely more prudent, however, to keep
on the right side. If Maraquita were in the slightest danger--if she
were even seriously ill, I should be the first to entreat you to see
her, but as it is, your presence would only do her harm. She is weak
and exhausted, and everything depends on her gaining strength from
sleep. Would you be so selfish as to excite and throw her back again,
by disturbing her, or run the risk of contracting the disease yourself?’
‘Certainly _not_,’ interrupted Mr Courtney decisively. ‘You are right,
Fellows, as you always are--’
(‘Don’t say that,’ interpolated the Doctor, in a pained voice.)
‘----and I forbid my wife going near the room where Maraquita lies. I
can trust her to you, Fellows--implicitly, and with the most perfect
confidence. I know you will do your very best for my dear child, and
treat her as if she were your own.’
‘Indeed--indeed I will, Courtney! If a sense of all I owe to you--’
‘Hush! I will not hear you mention it. If such were ever the case, you
have repaid it a thousand fold. And here I give you the best proof I
could, of my friendship and affection. I leave with you my dearest
possession--my only child. Fellows, my dear old chum, I know there is
no need for me to recommend her to your care. You can remember how long
it was before she came to us, how gladly I received the gift, and how
precious it has been to me ever since. My very life is bound up in my
little Quita. You will guard it--’
‘With my own,’ interrupted the Doctor solemnly. ‘I would lay down my
life to-morrow, Courtney, to save that of any one who is dear to you.’
‘I believe it, my dear fellow, and, thank God, there is no necessity
for such a sacrifice. You can assure us that Maraquita is in no danger.’
‘On my word of honour, she is in no danger whatever, and in a few days
she will be quite well again. All she needs is rest and quiet, and if
you will trust her to Liz and me, we will see that she gets it.’
‘We do trust her with you; and Liz, we know, will make the most devoted
nurse,’ said Mr Courtney, smiling; but as he caught sight of Lizzie’s
face, the smile faded. ‘Holloa! what is this? Are you going to have the
fever too? You are as white as a sheet.’
‘It is the heat,’ murmured Liz, in a low voice, as she turned away;
‘and I have had a great deal of nursing lately into the bargain, Mr
Courtney. Father and I have the heartache all day long, to see the
ravages made by the fever amongst the coolies.’
‘Yes, it is sad enough,’ said the planter, ‘even for those who have not
to count the loss as I have, by pounds, shillings, and pence. Do what
we will to improve the condition of these people, their natural love
of dirt and over feeding makes them fall an easy prey to any disease.
We are quite sensible of what you and your father have done for us,
Lizzie. It is through your means alone, that we have not lost many
more. You must not be disheartened on that account.’
‘The distress seems universal,’ continued Liz; ‘the same floods that
rotted the vegetation, and caused this malarious fever, have destroyed
the rice-fields, and spread a famine amongst the negro population. The
cases of starvation that reach us every day are heartrending, because
it is so impossible to relieve them all. Have there been any more riots
in the town, Mr Courtney?’
‘No, Liz. I have heard of none since the military were called out to
quell them. But we must keep you up no longer. It is already morning.
Come, my dear Nita, let us leave Dr Fellows and his daughter to get
some rest for themselves.’
But Mrs Courtney was still unwilling to assent entirely to the Doctor’s
wishes. She had no suspicion of the truth, but she felt intuitively
that something had been kept back from them, and she was curious to
find out what it was.
‘Let Jessica stay, at all events,’ she said; ‘she has been Quita’s
nurse since she was a baby, and has attended her through all her
illnesses. She will break her heart if you do not let her stay; and she
can watch Maraquita when Lizzie is absent or engaged.’
‘That sounds reasonable,’ acquiesced Mr Courtney; ‘and perhaps Jessica
had better remain at the bungalow.’
But Dr Fellows was firm in resisting the proposal.
‘Jessica can remain here if you desire it,’ he answered, ‘but she does
not enter Quita’s room. I am not even sure that Lizzie will do so. You
have confided your daughter to my care, Mr Courtney, and you will not
find me unworthy of the trust. I shall be both nurse and doctor to
Maraquita, until I can bring her to the White House again.’
‘You are a good fellow,’ said Mr Courtney, wringing the Doctor’s hand,
‘and I do not limit the confidence I place in you. Jessica shall
return with us, and we will leave Quita entirely in your care.’
‘You shall have no cause to regret it,’ replied Dr Fellows, as he
accompanied them to the door of the bungalow. ‘You can send down as
often as you like for news of her, and I shall be found at my post,
ready to report on her progress. But I honestly anticipate restoring
her to you in a very short time.’
As he returned from seeing them off, and met his daughter’s eye, his
face changed, and his expression became very grave.
‘That is well over,’ he ejaculated, with a sigh, ‘and the rest remains,
Lizzie, with you and me.’
‘Which means, father, that she is safe as far as _we_ are concerned. Am
I to go into her room?’
‘No; I should prefer you should not. There is no necessity for your
presence there, and I wish to leave you as unfettered as I possibly
can. You have no notion how this calamity happened, Liz?’
‘Not the slightest. I know so few of her friends. I have not even heard
that she had an attachment for any one.’
‘Well, it is a terrible business, but we must stand her friends, and
see her through with it. She has told me nothing, poor child; but she
has thrown herself upon my mercy, and entreated me to save her from
the wrath and reproaches of her parents, and for their sakes I have
promised to do so. She implores that even _you_ shall not be told of
her misfortune, and I have been obliged to humour her. We must keep
up the deception of the fever, and as soon as she is sufficiently
recovered to return home, the danger will be over.’
‘But--Mammy Lila!’ gasped Liz.
‘Mammy Lila will do as I tell her, my dear, and at all risks this
child’s reputation must be saved. Everything else is an after
consideration,’ replied the Doctor, as he stumbled slightly, and saved
himself by catching at the back of a chair.
‘Father, are you ill?’ cried Lizzie quickly, as she sprang to his
assistance.
‘No, I think not; but I will take a cordial, if you will mix it for me.
I _must_ not be ill until this business is settled, and Maraquita is
safe under her parents’ roof again.’
‘But your hands are very cold, and you are trembling all over. Surely
you are unfit for further work, and should go to bed and rest. Father,
trust her to me. Don’t overtax your strength, for her sake. You know
that I am a careful and trustworthy nurse.’
‘If I _die_ in the effort, I will watch over her myself, and without
assistance!’ cried the Doctor excitedly, as he drank the draught she
tendered him, and tottered back to the sleeping-chamber.
Lizzie looked after him with the deepest anxiety.
‘I am _sure_ he is ill,’ she said to herself, and if I am not very much
mistaken, he has the symptoms of the fever strongly upon him. Oh, my
poor father! is it possible that when you need the attention and skill
you have bestowed on others, you will sacrifice yourself for the sake
of this frail girl? Yes, I feel you will, even should it result in your
own death. And I would have it so, though Heaven only knows what I
should do without you--sooner than see you shrink from paying off one
tithe of the heavy debt you owe to Maraquita’s father. But the bearing
of this heavy burden laid upon us! Did Mr Courtney but know the weight
of it, he would surely acknowledge his forbearance has not been in
vain.’
[Illustration]
[Illustration]