A week had passed away since Maraquita Courtney had entered the
Doctor’s bungalow, and the moment that Liz dreaded had arrived--they
were to meet again. Never once had she entered Quita’s chamber during
the period of her illness. Dr Fellows had chosen the oldest, most
stupid, and most deaf negress on the plantation to attend to his
patient’s wants, and sternly forbidden his daughter to enter her
presence. But to-day she was pronounced convalescent, or sufficiently
so to return to the White House, and her parents, who were naturally
anxious to have her home again, had arranged to fetch her away that
afternoon. Dr Fellows had said to his daughter a moment before, on
passing through the sitting-room,--
‘Maraquita is up and dressed, and will be with you in a short time.
She is still weak and nervous. Mind you say nothing to upset her;’ and
Liz had promised, feeling almost as nervous at the idea of the coming
interview as Quita herself could have done.
She had not to wait long. In a few minutes the bedroom door opened,
and Maraquita, leaning on the arm of the old negress, walked slowly
into the apartment. She was robed in a white muslin gown. Her dark hair
was hanging loose upon her shoulders, and her face was as white as
her attire. There was an ethereal look about the girl that naturally
excited pity, and the scared expression on her features went straight
to Liz’s kindly heart. In a moment she had sprung to her assistance.
‘You are still very weak, Quita. Are you sure you feel equal to leaving
your room?’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ replied the girl, in a petulant tone, as if she did
not like the subject of her illness alluded to. ‘There is nothing the
matter with me now, Lizzie. I could have returned home two days ago, if
your father would have let me. I really think he is _too_ particular.’
‘How _can_ he be too particular where _you_ are concerned,’ said Lizzie
gravely, as she placed the trembling Quita on the sofa. ‘Mr Courtney
confided you to his care, and trusted him to look after you as if you
were his own child, and father has felt the charge to be a sacred one.’
‘He is very good,’ replied Maraquita, in a low voice; ‘but I have not
been so _very_ ill, Lizzie, after all, and I am all right again now. I
hope nobody will make a fuss about it.’
Liz was silent, for she did not know what to reply. They had reached a
point where confidence came to a full stop between them, and she could
hardly have spoken without perverting the truth. So she tried to change
the subject.
‘How soon do you expect Mr and Mrs Courtney to fetch you, Quita?’
‘I don’t know. I think the Doctor has walked up to the house to tell
them I am ready. Mamma will be surprised to find _you_ didn’t nurse me,
Liz. Why didn’t you do so?’ inquired Quita nervously, as if she wanted
to find out how much or how little of her secret had been confided to
her foster-sister’s discretion.
But she had not fathomed the depths of Lizzie’s character. She had
sworn not to reveal what she knew, and she would have been torn to
pieces on the rack without confessing it. It was useless of Quita, or
any other person, attempting to force it from her.
‘Why didn’t I nurse you, Quita? Not because I was unwilling; you may
be sure of that. Simply my father said he did not wish me to do so,
and that was enough for me. I have been trained to understand that the
first duty of a medical assistant is implicit obedience. I have full
faith in my father’s discretion, and know that he would not lay one
restriction on me that was unnecessary. I can tell you no more than
that. Only believe that it was not my own wish, and that if I _might_
have nursed you I gladly would.’
‘It was best not, or you might have caught the fever. You know that I
have had a touch of the fever?’ continued Quita interrogatively, but
with downcast eyes.
Liz could not answer ‘_Yes_.’
‘I heard my father tell Mr and Mrs Courtney so,’ she said, after a
pause.
Her reticence alarmed Maraquita. She didn’t like Liz’s calm, collected
manner and short replies.
‘Well, I suppose your father doesn’t tell lies,’ she answered
brusquely.
‘I have always believed him,’ said Liz sadly. ‘But, Quita, you have
talked enough. Your face is quite flushed. Keep quiet, like a good
girl, or you may not be able to return home with your parents, and that
will be a great disappointment to them.’
She took up her work again, and commenced sewing, whilst Quita lay
still, but with a palpitating heart, as she wondered what Liz could
have meant by evading her question. Could she have read her friend’s
thoughts at that moment, her curiosity would have been satisfied,
though not in the way she desired. Liz was marvelling, with a feeling
of contempt, as she stitched industriously at her calico, how any woman
could bring a child into the world, lawfully or unlawfully, and think
only of her safety afterwards, without one thought for her own flesh
and blood; the flesh and blood, too, of some one who _ought_ to be so
much dearer to her than herself. She sat there, nervously anticipating
every moment to feel Quita’s little hand slip into hers, and to hear
her quivering voice ask for news of her child.
Liz would have loved her a thousand times more for the weakness. She
would have forgiven her all her frailty and wickedness in one moment,
and taken her into her arms with a loving assurance that her infant
should be as carefully guarded as the secret of its birth. But no
such appeal came from the young mother. On the contrary, she seemed
anxious and worried about herself alone, and the only excuse which
Liz had been able to conjure up for her sinfulness, grew weaker and
weaker with the passing moments. But perhaps, thought Lizzie, with
her ever ready charity, perhaps Quita had learned all she wished to
know from Dr Fellows, and her own hasty judgment of her was a grievous
wrong. But both the girls felt there was a barrier raised between their
intercourse that had never been there before, and it was a relief to
them to hear the sing-song chant of the palanquin bearers as they came
through the grove to fetch Maraquita away.
In another minute Dr Fellows appeared upon the threshold, accompanied
by Mr and Mrs Courtney, and Quita was in her parents’ arms. In their
delight at receiving her again, they almost forgot to ask for any
particulars concerning her illness.
‘Oh, my dear child!’ exclaimed her mother impressively, ‘I hope you
have thanked Dr Fellows as you should do for all his attention to you.
I don’t believe anybody could have brought you round so quickly as
he has. Your father and I were dining with the Governor, Sir Russell
Johnstone, last evening, and he said that Dr Martin of the Fort had
told him no cases of fever had been declared convalescent under three
weeks. And here you are, you see, almost well again in a third of the
time.’
‘Not so fast, my dear madam,’ interposed the Doctor. ‘As you are
naturally anxious to have her under your own care, I can pronounce Miss
Courtney to be sufficiently recovered to be moved to the White House,
but I shall visit her every day, and it will be some weeks before she
is completely off the sick list. But she must eat as much as she can,
and do as little as she need, and she will soon be strong again.’
‘But if you think it would be more prudent for her to remain here a
little longer under your care, my dear Fellows, we are quite willing to
leave her,’ said Mr Courtney.
‘No, no!’ cried Quita, clinging to her mother’s neck, and sobbing.
‘Take me home, mamma! I am longing to get away, and to be with you.’
‘That does not sound very grateful in you, my dear,’ said her father,
‘considering all that you owe to Dr Fellows, and Lizzie.’
‘Don’t mention it!’ cried the Doctor quickly. ‘She is weak, and
nervous, and hardly knows what she is saying, and the worst thing in
the world for her is this agitation. She will be much better under
her mother’s care. Take her home at once, Mr Courtney, and let this
exciting scene be ended.’
He threw a mantle over Maraquita’s shoulders as he spoke, and placed
her in the palanquin, which was in the verandah. The bearers raised
their burden to their shoulders and set off at a walking pace, the rest
of the party keeping by their side.
They had all been so occupied with the removal of Maraquita, that they
had hardly noticed Lizzie, who stood at the open window watching their
departure. So this was the end of it! The last week had passed like an
unholy dream to her,--a dream of which she had had no time to read the
import until now. Should she ever unravel it? Would the tangled meshes
which it seemed to have woven round her, fall off again to leave her
free? She did not see the way to burst her bonds, but she resolved that
she must know the worst concerning herself and Henri de Courcelles at
once. She felt that it would be impossible for her to live on, and
do her duty as it should be done, whilst any moment might bring an
exposure to sever her from her lover. She was still pondering on her
troubles when Dr Fellows slowly re-entered the bungalow.
‘How did she bear the journey?’ asked Liz, as she caught sight of her
father. ‘She seemed to me too weak to attempt it.’
‘So she would have been under ordinary circumstances, but of two
evils we must choose the least. The poor child’s life here was one of
torture, from the fear of detection. She will feel safer at the White
House, and her recovery will be more rapid in consequence.’
‘And meanwhile, she doesn’t care one jot if her infant lives or dies,’
said Liz contemptuously.
Dr Fellows regarded her with mild surprise.
‘You are very hard on her, my daughter. Cannot you make some allowance
for the terrible position in which she is placed?’
‘I cannot understand it,’ she answered.
‘No, and you never will--thank God for it. Your sense of right and
wrong is too clear to permit you to be led astray. But this poor child
is very different in character from yourself. She is weak, and foolish,
and unprincipled, and the scoundrel who has taken advantage of her
simplicity, should be strung up at the Fort. It seems a shame that, in
order to protect her good name, he should be allowed to go unpunished.
But perhaps you cannot understand that also.’
‘Father, you mistake me!’ cried Lizzie. ‘I can love, or I believe I
can, as fondly as any woman, and I can well imagine the force of the
temptation which circumstances might bring with it. God forbid that I
should judge any error that springs from too much love, or consider
myself beyond its reach. But I _cannot_ understand the selfishness that
makes a woman shrink from the consequences of her sin, as if it had no
claim upon her. Where is the father of this child? If I were Quita, I
would rather go out into the world with my baby in my arms, and beg
from door to door by _his_ side, than run away as she has done, and
leave it to the care of strangers.’
‘Hush, hush!’ exclaimed the Doctor quickly, looking round them with a
face of fear. ‘Even the walls have ears. Remember your oath, Lizzie,
and never mention this subject, coupled with her name, again.’
‘Let me ask you at least, father, if you have seen Mammy Lila.’
‘More than once, Lizzie, and all will be right there, until I have
time to decide what is best to be done in the future. But it will be a
terrible puzzle, and I must think it over gravely. I am ill and weary
at present, and would rather leave things as they are for a month or
two.’
‘I, too, feel ill and weary,’ rejoined Lizzie sadly. ‘I have not liked
to worry you with my own troubles whilst you were attending on Quita,
but now that she is gone, father, I must ask you one question. What
am I to do with regard to what you told me on the night that she came
here, and you extracted that oath of secrecy from me?’
‘Do! What would you do?’ demanded Dr Fellows, with a white face.
‘I don’t know. The knowledge seems to have laid a burden on me too
heavy to be borne. Had I only myself to consider, my task would be,
comparatively speaking, easy. I could take care that I suffered alone.
But there is Monsieur de Courcelles; I must consider him.’
‘What has De Courcelles to do with it?’
‘Father, how can I contemplate a marriage with him without first
telling him the truth? Am I to leave it to chance whether he finds out
or no that--that you did what you told me? I could not do it. Such
a life would kill me. I will marry no man unless he knows the whole
story.’
‘Would you betray my confidence?’ exclaimed Dr Fellows bitterly. ‘Have
my long years of secret sorrow and humiliation not been sufficient
punishment for me, but that my child will hold me up to public
degradation?’
‘No, no, father; do not say that! Not a word that you uttered shall
ever pass my lips without your free consent. I will do anything rather
than repeat them. I will even give up--Henri de Courcelles.’
‘And would that break your heart, my dear?’
‘Never mind if it breaks my heart!’ she cried, with a sudden storm of
weeping; ‘if it must be, it must be, and there is no alternative. I
love him too well to deceive him, and I love you too well to betray
you. It is no one’s fault--it is only my misfortune; but I must end it
at once and for ever, or it will get the better of me. To-morrow I will
tell Henri de Courcelles that our engagement is at an end.’
‘Do nothing in a hurry,’ replied her father wearily. ‘Be patient for a
few days, Lizzie, and we may think of some way out of this dilemma. You
owe it to Monsieur de Courcelles as well as to yourself--’
At this moment a young negress, with a yellow handkerchief bound about
her woolly head, and the tears running down her black cheeks, hastily
entered the bungalow.
‘Massa Fellows,’ she cried, ‘I bring berry bad news. Poor Mammy Lila
gone to heaven! Mammy took sick with fever last night, and no one to
send for Doctor but me, and I got de chile to tend. So Mammy say, “Gib
me pepper pot, and I all right to-morrow;” but morning time Mammy go
home. And Aunty Cora come and stay by her, and she tell me take dis
chile back to Dr Fellows, ’cause Mammy Lila dead, and dis nigger must
go home to her fader and moder.’
‘Why, it’s Judy, Mammy Lila’s grandchild, and she has brought the
infant back again!’ exclaimed Liz, as she saw the bundle in the girl’s
arms.
‘Mammy Lila gone! Here’s a misfortune to upset all our plans,’ said
the Doctor.
‘Father, what are we to do?’
‘We can do nothing but keep the child here--at all events for a few
hours, Liz. I know of no one else to take charge of it, or, at least,
no one whom I could trust. To-morrow I will go over to the Fort and
consult Dr Martin; but for the present it must remain with you, and I
will take this girl back to Shanty Hill, to see that she speaks to no
one in the plantation. Here, Judy, give the baby to Miss Liz, and you
shall go back to Shanty Hill with me. Are you _sure_ that Mammy Lila is
gone?’
‘Sure, massa! Why, she cold as a stone, and Uncle Josh making her
coffin already. The last words she sez was, “Take chile back to Doctor,
and say Mammy can’t do no more;” and den she lay her head down and
shut her eyes, and I run for Aunty Cora, and she say Mammy dead as a
door nail.’
‘All right, Judy. I’m very sorry to hear it, but I’ll go back with you
all the same.’
He reached down his hat and stick as he spoke, and turned to his
daughter before he left the room.
‘I’ll be back in an hour or two, Liz. Take the child into the inner
room, and don’t leave the house till I return. I didn’t know the fever
had reached Shanty Hill. I must see some sanitary precautions carried
out there.’
The young negress placed the infant in Lizzie’s outstretched arms.
‘You’ll be glad to get it back again, I guess,’ she said slyly, as she
deposited it there.
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ replied Liz, taking no further notice of the
remark, as she carried her burden tenderly away.
She placed it on the bed, and carefully unfolded the wrappings round
it. She had a natural curiosity to see the little creature born of one
so near and dear to her, even though it had no title but to a heritage
of shame. And when she saw it, the maternal instinct so strong in the
breasts of all good and pure women rose like a fountain in her heart,
and overflowed for the poor motherless and fatherless baby thrown so
unexpectedly upon her care.
Maraquita’s little daughter was a tiny, fragile-looking thing,
with large dark eyes and a waxen complexion, and a wistful, solemn
expression, as if she were asking the cold world not to spurn her for
her parents’ fault. The first view of her touched Lizzie deeply. She
hardly knew herself why she cried like a child at the sight of those
tiny hands and feet, those grave, wondering eyes, and the head of soft,
dark hair that nestled against her bosom. But the best feelings of her
nature rose to the surface, and her first idea was that she could never
part with the child again, but would tend and rear it for Maraquita’s
sake. But when she confided her wishes to Dr Fellows, he shook his head
in dissent.
‘It would never do, Lizzie. It would be too great a risk,’ he said.
‘The child’s presence here would excite general curiosity. The talk
would reach Maraquita’s ears, and its proximity would unsettle
her--perhaps cause her to betray herself. There is only one safe
course to pursue in these unhappy cases, and that is, complete
separation. Take care of the poor little creature to-night for me, and
to-morrow I will ride over to the Fort, and see if Dr Martin knows
of any trustworthy woman to take charge of it. The regiment is to be
relieved next month. If I can get the child shipped off to England, I
shall consider it the most fortunate circumstance that could befall it,
unless indeed it would die first, which would be still better.’
‘Oh, father!’ cried Liz reproachfully, as she laid her lips against the
baby’s velvet cheek.
‘It sounds hard, my dear, but it can inherit nothing but a life of
shame and loneliness, and it would be very merciful of God to take it.
You don’t know what it is to live under the crushing sense of shame.
Besides, it is a weakly infant, and under any circumstances is not
likely to make old bones.’
‘I believe that I could rear it, with care and attention,’ repeated
Liz, wistfully.
‘It is impossible,’ repeated the Doctor briefly, as he left the room.
But in a few minutes he returned, and walked up to where his daughter
was still crooning over the baby.
‘Lizzie, I have been thinking over your wish to tell Henri de
Courcelles my story. But it must not be, my dear--not at least during
my lifetime. You will be angry with me for saying so, but I don’t quite
trust De Courcelles. We have never got on well together. There is
something about him I don’t understand. If I should die, Lizzie, and
sometimes I think it won’t be long, first, you can do as you think fit,
but whilst I live, I hold you to your promise of secrecy.’
‘And I will keep it,’ replied Lizzie, ‘as if it had been made to God.’
[Illustration]
[Illustration]