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.
END OF VOL. I.
COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.