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.
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