She was still weeping quietly, when the branches of the orange tree
which formed a leafy bower around her, were parted, and a voice
exclaimed, with passionate intensity,--
‘Maraquita!’
The girl sprang to her feet without any effort to conceal her tears.
Henri de Courcelles stood beside her.
‘Oh, go!’ she implored, ‘go at once. You don’t know the risk you are
running. My mother suspects us, and she may be back in another moment.
For _my_ sake, Henri, go.’
‘Not unless you will tell me the cause of your grief. Is it because
this burden is too heavy for you? If so, come with me, and let us share
it, and fight the world together.’
‘I cannot talk with you about it now, Henri,’ replied Maraquita, with
a look of alarm; ‘it is impossible. You _must_ leave me. I see Jessica
coming from the house.’
‘Then where will you meet me, for I shall not rest until you have
satisfied my curiosity; besides, I have important news for you
about--it.’
This intelligence made Quita change her mind. She was intensely anxious
to have the assurance of her own complete safety, and she could be
cunning enough where her inclinations were concerned.
‘Have you done--what I asked you?’ she gasped.
‘I have made everything right, but I cannot explain the matter to you
in a moment, nor where there is any fear of our being overheard.’
‘Wait for me in the oleander thicket, then,’ cried Maraquita. ‘I will
be there in five minutes.’
Henri de Courcelles nodded acquiescence, and disappeared as old Jessica
came up to her young mistress.
‘Missus Courtney send me to ask if my missy like to have someting to
eat and drink now; and will missy come back to de house, or will she
have it brought out here under de trees?’ asked the negress.
‘Neither, Jessica. Tell mamma I am not hungry or thirsty, only very
sleepy, and I want to be left alone for an hour or two. I can call you
when I wake.’
‘If missy sleepy, better come and sleep in house,’ urged Jessica. ‘So
many flies and ’skeeters about here.’
‘I wish you would let me do as I like, Jessica,’ said Quita, ‘and keep
your suggestions to yourself.’
‘I’se very sorry, missy. I won’t say any more, only stop here and keep
off de flies and tings from your face.’
‘You’re enough to drive a saint mad!’ cried Maraquita, stamping her
foot. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted to be left alone? What is it to you
if I like flies and mosquitoes buzzing about me? Go back to the house,
and don’t come near me again till I give you leave.’
The old nurse obeyed without a murmur; but she _did_ murmur, for all
that. The coloured people are very secretive, and can assume an
appearance of complete innocence, all the time they are cognisant of
their employer’s most important secrets.
‘Ah! my poor little missy,’ muttered Jessica to herself, as she
shambled on her bare flat feet towards the house, ‘you think ole black
nurse blind, but she see too well. She know all about de baby at
Doctor’s bungalow, and who’s de fader and moder of it, as well as you.
And she will see her little missy revenged, before many moons is ober
her head, into de bargain. Cuss dat oberseer!’
Meanwhile Maraquita, having watched Jessica into the house, through the
branches of the orange tree, stole out the opposite side, and, keeping
well out of view of the windows, took her way towards the oleander
thicket, which lay between her home and De Courcelles’ bungalow. It
was a wild patch of flowering shrubs, densely planted together, and
forming a sufficient ambush to conceal any number of persons from
the public gaze. There was a wooden bench in one part of it, where
Maraquita and De Courcelles had often held their moonlight trysts
together; and there she found him eager to tell his news, and claim his
reward.
Quita sunk down upon the bench, and trembled. She was not only weak
from her recent illness, but she dreaded the scene which might follow
the impending revelation.
‘You are far from well yet, my Quita,’ said Henri de Courcelles, as he
folded his arms about her trembling form; ‘but I have something to tell
you which will set your mind at rest.’
‘Tell it to me quickly, then,’ rejoined Maraquita. ‘Have you sent it
out of the island? Are you _sure_ I shall never hear of it again?’
‘No, I cannot quite promise you that,’ replied De Courcelles, with
an intuitive disgust (even in the midst of his passion) for her
undisguised selfishness. ‘It has never been in my hands, so it was
impossible I could form any plans for it. But circumstances have fallen
out so fortunately, that I don’t see any chance of suspicion falling
upon _you_.’
‘What do you mean? I don’t understand you,’ said Quita pettishly. ‘If
it is to remain in San Diego, the secret may come out any day, and my
only safety will be in leaving the island.’
‘Wait a moment, dearest, and listen to me. It seems that the day before
the Doctor’s death, he brought the child home to his bungalow, where it
now is--’
‘With Lizzie? In the bungalow?’ cried Quita, turning ashy pale. ‘Oh, my
God! then all is over, and I am lost!’
‘Hush! hush! Maraquita. Nothing of the sort. Liz refuses to say a word
upon the subject. _I_ have questioned her narrowly; so has your father;
and all she will answer is that before his death Dr Fellows extracted a
solemn oath from her never to disclose anything concerning the child,
and that her lips are sealed.’
‘Oh, but it will come out; it is sure to come out some day!’ exclaimed
Quita, weeping, as she wrung her hands in abject fear. ‘You have ruined
me, Henri! You have destroyed all my future prospects! I shall be
branded for ever as a dishonest woman!’
‘But it is impossible! All the plantation--I may say all San
Diego--already believes the child to be Lizzie’s own.’
Maraquita stared at him in astonishment.
‘They believe _that_! But what does Lizzie say?’
‘She can say nothing! Her lips are sealed by her oath!’
‘Some day the shame may prove too hard to bear, and they will be forced
open.’
‘It will be too late then to assert her innocence. The world of San
Diego is quite convinced by this time that she is the mother of the
infant, and her attempts to cast the blame on you will only appear
to be an impudent subterfuge. She has no proof--or witness--to bring
forward in confirmation of the truth.’
‘Poor Lizzie,’ said Quita, in a low voice, visions of past
kindnesses on the part of her adopted sister, and of a faithful
life-long affection, floated before her mind, and made her tremble.
Something--was it the last effort made by her Good Angel in her
behalf--seemed to rise within her heart, and prompt her to cry out
that _it must not be_, that she _could_ not be guilty of this dreadful
wrong, and let her just burthen lie on the shoulders of an innocent
woman. But then she remembered the shame and the disgrace that would
ensue to her, and how her parents would despise and reproach her, and
Sir Russell Johnstone would refuse to make her his wife, and moral
cowardice made her shiver and remain silent.
‘Ay! poor Lizzie,’ echoed De Courcelles. ‘I am really sorry for the
girl; but what can be done? It is a choice between two evils. Either
_she_ must be sacrificed, or my peerless Maraquita. Do you suppose I
could hesitate between them? There is one thing to be said, however.
Lizzie is not in your position. She will not feel the disgrace so
keenly as you would. And, before long, Maraquita, we may be able to
relieve her of her burthen.’
Maraquita did not like the last allusion.
‘I don’t see _how_,’ she answered lamely.
‘Have you forgotten, then, what you promised, when you asked me to
assist you to escape the inevitable blame of the consequences of our
mutual love,--that, if your parents refused to sanction our marriage,
you would elope with me to Santa Lucia, and not return until we were
man and wife in the eyes of the law, as we are now in the eyes of
Heaven?’
‘But you have _not_ done as I asked you,’ she replied evasively. ‘I
don’t see that you have done anything. _It_ is still here, closer at
hand even than I thought it was, and (whatever you may say) liable at
any moment to be brought home to my door. And there is another danger,
Henri. Mamma has discovered our secret--how, I am unable to say, but
she has told me so pretty plainly, and also that she will keep it only
on one condition--’
‘And that is--’
‘That I accept the proposals of Sir Russell Johnstone.’
‘_You shall not!_’ cried her lover indignantly. ‘I will not stand by
quietly and see the woman I consider _my wife_ handed over to that
bald-headed old Governor. I will go straight up to Mr Courtney sooner,
and confess the truth, and ask his pardon for what I have done. Surely
he would never wish you to marry another man, if he knew what has taken
place between us. And if he persists in dragging you to the altar, I
will tear you from your bridegroom’s arms, and stab you to the heart,
before he shall claim what is mine.’
Quita’s star-like eyes dilated with terror. She knew something of what
the Spanish and Creole blood is capable of doing when roused, and
foresaw bloodshed--perhaps murder--if Henri de Courcelles did not have
his own way. And yet, to give up the brilliant prospect before her, in
order to become an overseer’s wife, and one whose maiden reputation
would be lightly spoken of, seemed to be impossible. Why had she ever
entangled her feet in a net which threatened to drag her down to a
life of obloquy and shame? To what friend could she turn in her great
need? Suddenly the idea flashed across her mind that she would confess
everything to her mother. Mrs Courtney already knew (or had guessed)
the truth, and counselled her daughter on the best mode of escaping
its results. She was very anxious to see Maraquita Lady Johnstone.
If making a clean breast of her secret brought a certain amount of
recrimination on her head, it would at the same time secure her an
ally with whom to fight this terrible battle for a name and a position
in life. For the first time hope and comfort seemed to enter her
breast. If her mother were on her side, she felt she could defy Henri
de Courcelles, and Liz Fellows, and the world. All their assertions
would be taken as impudent lies, and only secure their own immediate
banishment from Beauregard. But, meanwhile, her lover must be quieted
and conciliated, and Maraquita knew how to do it full well. She had
scarcely conceived the notion how to act in the future, before her
white arms were wreathed about his neck.
‘Henri,’ she cried, with her lips to his, ‘don’t speak to me like that!
Don’t think of such a thing, for Heaven’s sake! Do you imagine that _I_
would ever consent to be placed in such a position, or that any amount
of tyranny would make me marry a man against my will? Let the worst
come to the worst, dear; let mamma tell my father of our intrigue; it
will only result in your having to leave San Diego. Whether _I_ shall
be able to go too, remains to be proved. I am under age, you know, and
if papa chooses to lock me up, or send me to England, I suppose he can.
But even _that_ will be better than being forced to marry a man I don’t
love; and you know that I shall always remember you, dearest, and
think of the time that is past, as the happiest portion of my life.’
Henri de Courcelles looked sullen and suspicious. The clasping arms
were very sweet, and the ripe lips very tempting, but there was a false
ring in Quita’s speech, which made itself apparent to his senses,
although his judgment could not detect it. There was no fault to be
found with her words, yet they inspired him with distrust, and he felt
certain that she was betraying whilst she kissed him.
‘I don’t know what to think of you, Maraquita,’ he said presently. ‘I
suppose you love me, in your way, but you seem very ready to fall in
with your parents’ plans to get rid of me.’
‘But what _could_ I do, Henri, if my father was determined to separate
us? Am I not completely in his power? Our only chance appears to me to
lie in secrecy, and yet you speak as if you would disclose the affair
to all San Diego.’
‘And if I hold my tongue and remain quiet, what then? You will marry
Sir Russell Johnstone before my very eyes, and I shall have to grin and
bear it.’
‘We are the most unfortunate people in the world’, sighed Maraquita,
with mock sentimentality.
‘You mean that _I_ am the most unfortunate man in the world, ever to
have set my heart on a girl who doesn’t care two straws for me. I can
see through you now, Maraquita. You were willing enough to commit the
sin, but you are too great a coward to face the consequences of it.
You have deceived and disobeyed your parents over and over again,
when it suited your pleasure to do so, but when it comes to a question
of marrying the man you profess to love, you take refuge behind the
transparent screen of filial duty and affection. I was good enough
for your lover, it appears, but I am _not_ good enough to be your
husband. You have higher views in prospect for yourself, and I may
go anywhere,--be kicked out of my appointment, and cast homeless on
San Diego--what does it signify to you, so long as you become Lady
Johnstone, and have plenty to eat and drink, and a spotless reputation.
But it shall not be! You have made yourself _mine_, and I refuse to
give you up. If you attempt to become the wife of any other man,
whether in deference to your parents’ wishes, or your own, I will blast
your name from north to south, till the commonest fellow on the island
would refuse to give you his. Every black in San Diego shall know
_what_ you are, a light love, a false woman, and a heartless mother.’
‘You shall not--_you dare not_!’ gasped Maraquita, now thoroughly
frightened.
‘You shall see what I can _dare_!’ he exclaimed wildly. ‘For I will
take your life and my own, sooner than give you up to another.’
And with that Henri de Courcelles walked away, and left her sitting
there by herself. As soon as she was convinced he was not coming back
again, Quita rose, and with trembling steps walked slowly back to the
White House. He had succeeded in completely alarming her. She had
never seen him like this before, and he was terrible in his anger. His
black eyes had gleamed on her like polished steel, and his hand had
involuntarily sought his side, as though ready to grasp an invisible
stiletto. Quita felt certain he would be capable of any violence,
if not restrained, and fear lent her boldness. She would secure one
friend at least in her extremity, and whatever it cost her she would
confide her trouble to her mother. She found Mrs Courtney alone in her
own room, lying on a sofa, with bare feet, and the last novel that
had reached San Diego in her hand. But as she saw Maraquita enter the
chamber, she raised herself to a sitting position.
‘My dearest child! what is the matter? You are looking quite ill again.’
‘Oh, mamma, mamma,’ cried Quita, sinking at her mother’s feet, ‘I am so
unhappy!’
And then, in a broken voice, and with her face still hidden, she told
the story of her disgrace, and the danger which appeared to threaten
her.
Mrs Courtney listened in silence. She had suspected the cause of her
daughter’s illness, and the author of her ruin, but she was hardly
prepared to hear there was a living witness to her shame domiciled so
close to Beauregard. Her naturally sallow complexion turned almost
livid with horror, and her unwieldy frame shook with agitation. And
when the girl had finished her miserable recital, all her mother could
utter was,--
‘Oh, Maraquita, Maraquita, I couldn’t have believed it of you!’
‘Mother, don’t speak to me like that! I know I have been very wicked,
but I have no friend but you, and if _you_ desert me, I shall be lost.
Oh, mother, save me this once, and I will do everything you ask me in
the future. You want me to became Lady Johnstone, don’t you? But you
must think of some means of stopping Henri’s tongue, or I never shall
be. I did not think he would be so spiteful and revengeful! He says he
will stab me at the very altar.’
‘That is all talk, my dear! he will do no such thing! He shall be sent
out of Beauregard before a week is over his head; and if he dares to
assail your character, your father shall have him punished for it. But
listen to me, Quita. There is only one way to fight this scandal, and
that is to deny everything. Now, let me understand you plainly. Are you
_sure_ that no one but Dr Fellows and his daughter knew the secret of
this birth?’
‘_Quite_ sure, mamma! The Doctor told me so over and over again; and I
don’t think Lizzie knows _whose_ baby it is--and if she does, she has
taken an oath never to reveal it--and Lizzie will keep her oath!’ said
Maraquita, with complete faith in the fidelity of her friend.
‘There was no other person in the house at the time?’
‘No one, mamma.’
‘Then your course is plain. Whoever dares to mention this story to you,
or at whatever time it may crop up against you, _deny it entirely_.
Say you have never heard of such a thing before, and you are entirely
ignorant how it could have originated. _I_--as your mother--will
corroborate your statement, and we will uphold our assertion before the
world. Lizzie Fellows is really the only witness that can come against
you, and she will not break her promise, I am sure of that.
‘As for that villain De Courcelles, your father shall give him a
summary dismissal, and anything he may say in his rage will be taken
for revenge. He can _prove_ nothing. He has only his bare word to give
for it, and who would believe him against your own parents? Meanwhile,
dearest, the sooner your marriage takes place the better, and then you
will feel safe. But whatever you do, Maraquita, never acknowledge your
shame again, even to De Courcelles. You never know who may overhear it.
Try to believe it has never been, and then you will act as though it
had never been. As for marrying your father’s overseer, it is out of
the question, and like his presumption to dream of it. As if he hadn’t
done you harm enough already, without wishing to hamper you for life!
It’s like the unreasonable selfishness of men. But you may make your
mind easy, my dear, your mother will save you.’
‘Oh, mamma, how I wish I could go away somewhere, and never see nor
hear anything of him again!’ sobbed Maraquita.
‘So you shall, Quita, if you will only have a little patience. But
cease crying now, my child, or you will make yourself ill. Lie down on
my couch, and try to go to sleep. I won’t let you leave the house again
until Monsieur de Courcelles has quitted the plantation.’
And with a kiss of forgiveness, Mrs Courtney left her frail daughter to
repose.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]