Hugh Norris had not been slow to avail himself of Lizzie’s permission
to visit her. He had knocked about a good deal in the world, and he had
seen all sorts and conditions of women, but he had never met any one
to interest him, and hold his sympathies, like the Doctor’s daughter.
It was not only that she was firm and sweet in temper, and strong in
mind, and clever and energetic--there was a more binding tie between
them than that. _They thought together_; and if men and women would
realise that kindred tastes and ideas form the only lasting bond
between friends, there would be fewer unhappy marriages than there are.
There is a great deal of talk heard on occasions about the happiness
of surrendering one’s opinions in deference to those of the person one
loves, but that notion is only believed in by the men who wish to be
master, and ride roughshod over their household gods. To surrender is
to give up one’s mental and moral liberty, and there may be duty in
bondage, but there can be no pleasure. Marriage should be the cementing
of a friendship between the sexes, and it is the only safe light by
which to regard it. There should be plenty of _giving_ in it, but no
_giving up_! And Captain Norris felt that if Lizzie Fellows could learn
to regard him as he did her, there would be very few jars in their
domestic _ménage_. He had been detained in San Diego much longer than
he had anticipated. Just as he got his cargo on board, and was ready
to start, a serious damage had been discovered in the _Trevelyan_,
and he had been compelled to send her into dock for repairs. Although
the delay meant a considerable loss of money to him, Captain Norris
did not regret it. He did not feel easy, in common with many of the
residents, with regard to the safety of the island; and to leave Lizzie
in possible danger, surrounded by a horde of mutinous coolies, and
without the possibility of obtaining news of her for months together,
would have been a sore trial to him. He would have taken her with
him gladly as his wife, or as an ordinary passenger, but he knew her
character too well to propose it. Had she been affianced to him, and
danger threatened her benefactor and his family, she would have died
with them, sooner than desert them in the time of uncertainty. And
uncertainty seemed to prevail in San Diego. Grave mutterings were heard
on every side of averted rebellions and suppressed mutinies, and the
planters knew that it needed but the necessary boldness on the part
of one set of hands to rise, to set the whole negro population aflame
with the lust for rapine and murder. Sir Russell Johnstone was not a
favourite amongst them, for he disliked the coloured people, and had
passed some very harsh sentences on the prisoners brought up to him
for judgment, and his name was seldom mentioned without an execration
attached to it. The hands on Beauregard had not shown discontent
beyond the ordinary grumblings and small impertinences common amongst
the coolies; but Hugh Norris knew the character of the people well,
and he distrusted them. He remembered how in former mutinies, both in
the East and West Indies, the actual fight for the supremacy had been
preceded for a long time by half-suppressed murmurs and complaints,
like the muttering of the elements before a tempest, and that, when the
storm broke, it came like a clap of thunder, suddenly and unexpectedly,
and overwhelmed its victims before they were hardly aware of the danger
they incurred. So he was glad than otherwise to be detained in San
Diego, though what he heard and saw there did not tend to reassure him.
He was present at Maraquita’s wedding, being a friend both of Sir
Russell Johnstone and the Courtneys; but he declined the invitation
to the breakfast, both because he disliked such festivities, and that
Lizzie Fellows, he knew, would not be there. But on the evening of the
same day he strolled into her bungalow, and seated himself without
ceremony like an old friend.
‘So, Lizzie,’ he commenced, ‘you were not present at the grand wedding
this morning?’
‘No. I asked them to excuse me, Captain Norris. My dear father’s recent
death renders it very unfit that I should mix in any gaiety.’
‘But your adopted sister’s marriage, Lizzie! Surely that was an
occasion on which you might have relaxed your strict seclusion?’
He had marked the coolness which had separated Lizzie of late from
Mrs Courtney and her daughter, and he had his own suspicions on the
subject; but he had not presumed to put them into words.
‘They didn’t think so. They were quite satisfied to let me follow my
own wishes,’ replied the girl quietly.
‘And how is your nurse-child? Thriving?’
Lizzie’s eyes sparkled.
‘Beautifully, thank you. She is growing such a dear little creature,
and knows me as well as possible.’
‘Have you had her baptised?’
‘How strange you should ask me that question,’ remarked Lizzie
thoughtfully, looking up from her work. ‘It is the very thing I was
about to consult you on! How often we seem to have the same ideas at
the same moment! I think you must be a wizard, and read my thoughts!’
‘It is because we are so much in sympathy with each other, Lizzie. But
what about the mysterious baby? Have you decided on the name you will
call her?’
‘No; I have never troubled my head about it. Any name will do.’
‘Oh, poor little lady! let us give her a pretty one whilst we are about
it. Why not call her after yourself?’
Lizzie shrank from the idea.
‘Oh, no! She has nothing to do with me. Please suggest something else.’
‘Poor mite! she seems to have nothing to do with any one. She is a
little blot upon the universe. But she is God’s own child. Suppose we
call her after His mother.’
‘Mary! Yes, I like that idea. What is _your_ mother’s name, Captain
Norris?’
‘The same. I was thinking partly of her when I spoke.’
‘Then I shall like the name doubly for her sake. I am sure she must be
a good woman, to have borne such a son as you are.’
‘I am afraid that is not much recommendation for her, Lizzie,’ returned
Hugh Norris, laughing. ‘But she _is_ a good woman--the best woman I
have ever known--for all that. And how she would love _you_! How I wish
you knew her: you would get on so well together.’
‘How can you tell that?’
‘Because you have the same tastes. My mother is quite a doctor in her
way; and all the country people believe in her immensely. Only she is
a herbalist, and does not approve of strong drugs. Since my father
died, and her sons have gone out into the world, she has lived alone
in a cottage in the sweetest spot of Kent you have ever seen; and she
is beloved of the whole country-side. But I wish there was some one to
live with her, now she is getting old. She has never had a daughter, my
dear old mother! How she would love and cherish one!’
‘How many brothers have you?’ asked Lizzie, trying to run away from the
dangerous subject.
‘Two, George and Frederick. George is in the Indian Army, and has been
out in Bengal for the last five years; and Fred is in business in
London. He goes down to see mother every now and then; but they are
only flying visits, and she must feel very lonely at times.’
‘Yes, very! How often do _you_ see her?’
‘Every few months, as a rule; but my time in England is necessarily
short. If I had a wife--’ said Captain Norris, and there stopped.
‘Well,’ remarked Lizzie encouragingly, ‘what then?’
‘I was going to say that (with _her_ permission, of course) I shouldn’t
be entirely selfish: I should leave her behind me some voyages, that
she might keep my mother company. It wouldn’t be for long, perhaps, for
I hope to get work on shore some day--I shouldn’t like to spend all my
life roving about like this, without any settled home.’
‘But it must be glorious to sail about all over the world, and see so
many new countries!’ cried Lizzie, with kindling eyes.
‘It is, whilst a man is young and independent, and has no ties to pull
at his heart-strings. _You_ would enjoy it, Lizzie, I am sure. Your
free and energetic spirit would be quite in accord with the unfettered
elements, and you would glory in seeing them circumvented (for mastered
they can never be) by the ingenuity or prevision of men.’
‘Yes, I should like it, I am sure. It is the sort of life that would
carry one out of oneself, and make one almost forget how much falsehood
and wickedness and ingratitude hold their place amongst men. To be out
on the open sea from morning to night, and to know for certain that
no one who has injured or disappointed you can follow you there, and
that you are alone with God and your own thoughts--it must be a kind of
little heaven in itself, if--if--’
‘If _what_, Lizzie?’ demanded Hugh Norris eagerly.
‘If one went with the person one loved,’ she replied, with a slight
increase of colour.
‘Let us talk of the baby--of little Mary,’ he said impatiently. ‘When
shall we have her christened?’
‘Any day, if you will be her godfather, and share the responsibility of
her with me.’
‘Willingly. As she is to bear my mother’s name, I consider it incumbent
on me to do so. But, Lizzie, have you taken my advice about this child?
Have you appealed to her parents to lift the burden they have laid upon
you, by at least a partial confession of their error?’
‘I have,’ she answered, in a low voice.
‘And they refused?’
‘I only saw the mother, and she denied all knowledge of her child.
The--the--other parent I could not speak to.’
‘You know the names of both of them then.’
She bowed her head in silence.
‘Lizzie, I think I have guessed your secret, or at least part of it.
The father of this infant is Henri de Courcelles.’
‘What should make you say that, Captain Norris?’ she exclaimed, in a
tone of alarm.
‘The hesitation in your voice when you alluded to him; but I have had
my suspicions of it before now. And shall I tell you the name of the
mother who has left you to bear the burden of her shameful secret?’
‘No, no, Captain Norris,’ cried Lizzie, springing from her chair; ‘you
must not say it! I will not hear it! You are mistaken! It is not true!
Oh, my dear friend,’ she continued, laying her hand upon his arm,
‘think--_think_ what you are doing. The honour of a whole family is
involved in your discovery. Be silent. Keep the secret sacred, as I do,
for God’s sake.’
‘And what about the honour of the woman I love?’ he asked tenderly, as
he looked into her face; ‘am I not to think of that?’
‘If you love her,’ replied Lizzie, blushing, ‘you must know that her
honour is safe. But for the other--so young--so weak--’
‘So unprincipled--so false, you mean!’ said Hugh Norris indignantly.
‘Well, it will come home to her some day, see if it does not.’
‘But never through _my_ means,’ said Lizzie.
‘No, not through you, my angel, but God will take care of His own. You
will not always live under this cloud. You would leave it behind you
to-morrow, if you would but consent to be my honoured wife.’
‘Not while it hangs over me,’ she whispered.
‘And afterwards--’
‘Ah, Captain Norris, do not ask me! You are my best and truest friend,
and the man who would make me happier than any one else in the world.
I quite believe that. I say it after calm deliberation, and a careful
investigation of your character. But I am not in a position to marry
any one, and I never may be. Leave it to the future. If I am ever free,
and you are still of the same mind, I will answer the question you ask
me to-day.’
‘And I will live on that promise, Lizzie,’ replied Hugh Norris, ‘for
I feel the time of your release is not far off. If _you_ persist in
sacrificing yourself for the sake of your oath, your friends are not
bound to see you do it, without making an effort in your behalf. But I
have something to say to you before I go. Will you be very careful of
yourself, for my sake?’
‘In what way?’ she asked, with open eyes. ‘The fever is nearly passed;
and if it had not done so, I am fever-proof.’
‘There is a worse pestilence abroad than the fever, Lizzie,--a lust
for murder, and rapine, and insubordination. The negroes are ripe for
rebellion, and if there should be an insurrection, there may be fire
and bloodshed.’
‘Oh, they will never hurt me!’ replied Lizzie, with a confident smile.
‘My dear, when the thirst for blood gets possession of a mob,
infuriated by a sense of wrong, they do not stay to distinguish friends
from foes. I feel uneasy that you should stay in this bungalow alone,
Lizzie, with no better protection than Rosa. It is not safe. Do you bar
your doors and windows at night?’
‘_Bar my doors and windows?_’ repeated Lizzie, with a smile. ‘Why,
Captain Norris, they stand open night and day; and I don’t believe
there is a fastening to any one of them. The coolies would indeed think
I had gone out of my mind, if they saw me bolting myself in from fear
of them.’
‘But I don’t like it,’ said Hugh Norris, with a sigh. ‘I have witnessed
several mutinies, Lizzie; and if there should be a grudge borne against
you by one person only, it may be sufficient to incense the entire mob.
Suppose they were to fire your bungalow, and destroy all your property?’
‘Captain Norris, do you _really_ think it is so likely to occur?’
demanded Lizzie, struck by the portentous gravity of her friend.
‘I do indeed, or I should not caution you.’
‘Then they may injure the White House, or do some harm to Mr and Mrs
Courtney!’ she exclaimed in alarm. ‘Should you not warn _them_? They
are of far more importance than myself.’
‘I won’t allow that; but Mr Courtney, at least, is aware of the danger.
The planters have held a meeting on the subject, with a view to
inquiring into the coolies’ fancied wrongs, but not, I understand, with
any satisfactory results. In fact, they can’t make out what it is they
do want, and I don’t think the darkies know themselves. Only the demons
of distrust and discontent are stalking abroad, and it behoves every
white man to be extra careful.’
‘Suppose they were to hurt Maraquita,’ suggested Lizzie, with a
shudder. ‘She is not a favourite amongst them, poor child, I know.’
‘And will be none the more for having married the Governor; for
the coloured population have taken a strong dislike to Sir Russell
Johnstone, as the discovered plots against Government House plainly
show. However, she will have every protection that the military forces
can give her, and you have _none_. It is of _you_ that I am thinking,
Lizzie. I wish I could persuade you to leave this bungalow, and go and
stay in the Fort till the danger is over.’
‘Oh, dear no! That is quite impossible. What, run away from my
patients, and leave them to die, for fear lest some of the men amongst
whom I have grown up might turn against me? Captain Norris, you
cannot think what you are asking me. Indeed, I have no fear--not the
slightest. These coolies love me--I know they do--and would die for me
sooner than harm a hair of my head.’
‘Perhaps so, Lizzie; though I have not much faith in any coloured
people. But you have the coolies of other plantations to guard against.
They do not confine their attacks to their employers’ property. If the
hands on Miners’ Gulch or Sans Souci, or any other estate, were to
rise, they might make a raid on Beauregard. Now, do you understand the
danger you may be in?’
‘Yes,’ replied Lizzie thoughtfully; ‘I had not considered that. I will
ask Mr Courtney if old Peter or William Hall may sleep at the bungalow
for the future, though I do not think they will be much protection. But
I am not afraid,--indeed I am not.’
‘You are the most courageous woman I have ever met,’ replied Captain
Norris. ‘I don’t believe you are afraid of anything.’
‘Except of injuring those who have been good to me,’ she said, somewhat
timidly. ‘Captain Norris, there is something on my mind that I feel
bound to mention to you. My name is not Fellows, and I don’t know what
my real name is.’
‘Are you not the Doctor’s daughter, then?’ he demanded, in surprise.
‘Oh, yes, and though it may astonish you hereafter to remember I said
so, I would not give up the knowledge that I am his daughter for all
the world. Poor father! He was so unhappy, so unfortunate, so erring.
His soul was purified like that of an angel by the suffering he passed
through.’
‘Pardon me, Lizzie, but did I hear aright when you said your father was
_erring_?’
‘Yes, Captain Norris, erring beyond the generality of men. I should
not have mentioned it to you, except for the kind sentiments you have
expressed towards me this evening, and which make me feel that, before
they go further, you have a right to know all. The week before he died,
my father made a communication to me which I had never heard before,
and which he forbade me to repeat during his lifetime. His death has,
of course, released me from that duty, and I am sure that he would
have wished you, of all men, to be acquainted with the truth. But I
am afraid that it will shock you terribly, Captain Norris, to hear
that my poor father was a criminal in hiding from the law, and, except
for the goodness of Mr Courtney, he would have suffered the penalty of
transportation. This was the secret of the great friendship between
them, and why my father changed his name, to prevent his retreat from
being discovered.’
‘And yet Mr Courtney remained his friend to his life’s end. How good a
man your father must have been, Lizzie (but for this youthful error),
that his conduct had no power to separate him from the person who knew
and loved him best.’
‘Ah, that is how _I_ look at it!’ cried Lizzie, seizing his hand, and
bursting into tears; ‘but I hardly expected to hear so generous a
judgment from _your_ lips. If suffering, and repentance, and a desire
to make amendment, can atone for a man’s sin, I believe my poor father
fully expiated his. He was an exile from all his relations, and lived
under an assumed name, with no one but myself for a companion, and his
profession for occupation. I am not aware if I sprung from the gutter,
or came of a decent family. All I know is that I am called Elizabeth
Fellows, and that, although guiltless myself, I am not a fit wife for
any honest or honourable man.’
‘You shall not speak to me like that,’ exclaimed Hugh Norris
indignantly, ‘for it is not true! You are fit, in your own sweet self,
to mate with the best man that ever lived; and I consider you as far
above me as the stars are above the earth. But I think you should
ascertain your real name, and who your relations are. Your father is
gone, Lizzie. The discovery can never hurt him now, and there is no
saying how much benefit it may prove to you. Cannot Mr Courtney give
you the necessary information?’
‘I believe he can, but I have shrunk from asking him. This terrible
scandal about me--’
‘Don’t let that prevent you. Be your own brave self, and meet the
calumny as it deserves. Take my advice, Lizzie, and demand an
explanation from Mr Courtney as soon as possible. Life is uncertain,
you know, and he might die before you have ascertained the truth about
yourself. Then you might never hear it.’
‘He will be surprised to find me asking questions about which I have
shown no curiosity for so many years. He will wonder what can have put
it into my head.’
Hugh Norris drew nearer to her, and seized her hand.
‘Say you are engaged to be married to me, and that you consider I have
a right to know everything concerning yourself.’
‘But that would not be true.’
‘Make it true, then. It lies with you to do so.’
‘No, Captain Norris,’ she replied gently, withdrawing her hand from
his. ‘I cannot--at least just yet. Give me a little time to recover
myself. Remember that but a few weeks back I considered myself
betrothed to Monsieur de Courcelles.’
‘And you love him still,’ he answered roughly, in his disappointment.
‘No, no, I do _not_! I despise him for his falsehood and treachery,
and for his despicable conduct in trying to evade the consequences of
his own fault, at the expense of the character of the woman he once
professed to love. If there were not another man in all the world, I
would never place myself again under the yoke of Henri de Courcelles.
But to engage myself so soon to you--it would be hardly decent.’
‘Have your own way then,’ replied Hugh Norris, as he rose from his
seat, and took his cap in his hand. ‘I have asked you for the third
time, and failed. I shall begin to disbelieve in my good luck. It
evidently doesn’t lie in an uneven number.’
‘There are such slight intervals between your askings,’ said Lizzie,
laughing. But she ceased to laugh when she found herself alone.
The honest, disinterested love of Hugh Norris was beginning to work
its way into her heart, and heal the wounds made by the other’s
defalcation. She would have liked to call him back and tell him that
she would follow the dictates of her feelings, and give him his answer
at once, without any regard to the dictum of the world; but womanly
pride prevented her doing so. She was terribly afraid, also, of being
deceived a second time. The scalded dog fears cold water, and though
her sense told her that Hugh Norris’s character and disposition were
utterly different from those of Henri de Courcelles, she dreaded
making another mistake, and finding out, when too late, that they were
unsuited to each other. His summary departure had the effect, however,
of causing her a sleepless night, and as soon as the sun was up the
following morning, she found her way to Mr Courtney’s office.
‘Well, Lizzie,’ said the planter kindly, ‘and so you wouldn’t join our
festivities yesterday. It was a grand sight, though, and you would have
enjoyed it; and I missed you several times during the breakfast, I can
tell you.’
‘You have always been too kind to me, Mr Courtney; but you know
my reasons for not being with you. No one wishes Quita health and
happiness more than I do, and every sort of prosperity; but I was
better at home. Besides, I don’t think I could have come, under any
circumstances,’ continued Lizzie, smiling, ‘for do you know we had two
new arrivals on the plantation yesterday? Chloe, the mulatto, and Aunt
Jane, William Hall’s wife, both had daughters during the forenoon, and
both are determined to call them “Maraquita,” in honour of the wedding.
I did laugh so to see the two black woolly-headed little Maraquitas;
but the proud mothers saw nothing incongruous in the idea.’
‘Naturally,’ replied Mr Courtney, joining in the smile. ‘And what is
the plantation health report to-day?’
‘Very good! I have only two cases of fever left, and they are both
convalescent. The negro boy, Dickey, broke his arm whilst climbing
trees to see the fireworks last night--but it’s a simple fracture;
and I have a few children down with infantile cholera, but nothing
dangerous.’
‘That’s well. And can I do anything for you, Lizzie? Any orders wanted
for medicines, or other necessaries?’
‘No, sir; I have everything I require. But I came up this morning
chiefly to ask you a favour, Mr Courtney. I want you to tell me
everything you may know concerning my father and his family.’
The planter pushed his chair back, and regarded her with surprise.
‘About your father’s family?’ he echoed. ‘But why should you imagine
that I know more than yourself?’
‘Oh, you need attempt no concealment with me, sir. I appreciate the
generosity of your motive, but my father himself has rendered it
unnecessary. A few days before he was taken from us, he related to me
the history of his life, and the reason why he lived a pensioner on
your goodness at Beauregard, instead of taking his place in the world
and society, like other men. Also that he passed under an assumed name,
from fear of the law; but he did not tell me what my real name is, and
I wish to know.’
‘But to what purpose, Lizzie? What good will it do?’
‘I have not even thought of that, sir; but if it brought evil in its
train, I should still ask for the information. For since my father
told me that Fellows is not my own name, I seem to have lost my
individuality, and to be some one else. When I hear it spoken, I don’t
feel as if I had the right to answer; and in fact, Mr Courtney, I beg
of you to satisfy my curiosity in this particular.’
‘Well, Lizzie, you are a woman, and if you have made up your mind on
this subject, you shall be gratified; but I would ask you to think
again first. I don’t believe the information will make you happier.
What is the use of belonging to a family who will not own you? Your
poor father’s relations all turned against him, and will do the same by
his daughter. It was that they might never have the power to insult
him again, that he took the name of Fellows.’
‘So he told me, sir; and also of the crime he committed against you,
and of the generosity with which you forgave it. I feel (and I told him
so) that after that, my life and all I hold dearest in the world should
be at your disposal; and I will sink my personality in the future, as I
have done in the past, if you wish me to do so.’
‘No, no! my dear girl, I don’t consider I have any right to dictate
to you on the subject; and since you desire to know your name, I will
tell it you. You are Elizabeth Ruthin, the granddaughter of General Sir
William and Lady Ruthin of Aberdare in Scotland. Your dear father’s
name was Herbert Ruthin. He was the second son, the eldest, I believe,
is in the army. He has already told you (you say) of the sad event
which brought us together. He was my dearest friend in youth, and to
the day of his death; but he was extravagant and thoughtless, and
hardly thought of the gravity of the act he was committing.’
‘That is _your_ kind way of putting it,’ said Lizzie. ‘My father did
not exonerate himself after that fashion, sir. He saw his fault in its
true light. But my mother’s name--what was that?’
‘Alice Stevens. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and a very sweet
woman, I believe; but she died so early, that I saw but little of her.
Have you any more questions to ask me, Lizzie?’
‘Only, have you any papers to prove what you tell me, Mr Courtney?’
‘What a practical young woman you are. Yes, I have. I loved your dear
father with almost a romantic attachment, and I have kept all the
letters that passed between us as young men, that is, when he was
practically living at home on Sir William Ruthin’s estate of Aberdare,
but going backward and forward to pursue his studies at Edinburgh. His
frequent mention of his home life, and every one connected with it, is
sufficient proof of his identity.’
‘And may I have those letters, sir?’
‘Certainly, if you wish it; and, now I come to think of it, they should
be in your possession, in case of anything happening unexpectedly to
me.’
Mr Courtney rose as he spoke, and unlocking an iron safe, placed a
packet of letters, endorsed ‘Correspondence with my friend H. Ruthin,’
in her hand.
‘And now, Lizzie, what will you do with them?’ he added. ‘Shall you
go post-haste to England by the next steamer, and lay claim to your
father’s property?’
‘Oh, sir, don’t laugh at me! Remember that a felon’s daughter has no
rights.’
‘Lizzie, you shall not use that term of your late father in my
presence!’
‘It is what he called himself, sir,--what, doubtless, his people call
him to this day, if ever they mention his name. Are my grandparents
living, Mr Courtney?’
‘I believe so, my dear, and a very nice couple they were, though I have
heard this trouble was an awful blow to their pride. Scotch pride too.
There’s nothing like it. But Lady Ruthin loved her son Herbert dearly
in the olden days. I wonder if she ever mourns for him now?’
‘Can time wear out a mother’s love?’ said Lizzie. ‘And my poor father
was so loveable and affectionate. I cannot believe sometimes that he
was capable of so base a sin as ingratitude.’
‘Don’t believe it, my dear! It is all over and past now. Think only
of him as one of God’s regenerated children. And if he erred in that
respect, his mantle has not fallen on his daughter, for you have repaid
any kindnesses we may have shown you, twofold.’
‘I have tried to do so,’ replied Lizzie, in a faltering voice, as, with
the packet of letters in her hand, she passed quickly from the office
on her way home.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]