The next morning Liz was walking up the avenue of orange trees that led
to the White House, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her brow
wrinkled with perplexity. After many hours of painful deliberation,
she had come to the conclusion to take the advice of Captain Norris,
and beg Maraquita to relieve her of the intolerable burden of shame
she bore for her sake; but _how_ to accuse her adopted sister of her
sin, troubled her beyond measure. She felt so deeply for her youth
and betrayed innocence. Such a well of divine compassion for the
injured girl was mingled with her own horror of the deed, that she
scarcely knew whether she should feel most inclined to commiserate
with, or to blame her. Liz pictured Quita to herself writhing on the
ground for very shame at the discovery of her weakness, bright-eyed,
dusky-haired Maraquita, who had always seemed so much to be envied and
admired, prostrate in her humiliation, and her generous heart bled
in anticipation of her sister’s pain. She conned over and over again
the words in which she would break the truth to her, trying to make
them as tender and little accusing as she could. She would endeavour
(she thought) to first gain Quita’s confidence, and then to make her
understand that, if she would only do what was just, in confessing the
truth to her parents, Liz would be her friend, and the friend of her
little daughter, to their lives’ end. But what she was about to ask of
Quita was a very serious thing, and she doubted if the girl’s strength
of mind would carry her through it.
She did not ring for admittance when she reached the White House. She
had been accustomed to enter and leave it as she chose, and experienced
no difficulty in finding her way at once to the chamber where Maraquita
spent most of her morning hours.
This was an apartment adjoining her bedroom, and furnished more with
a view to the repose which is so essential in the torrid climate of
the West Indies, than to the pursuit of any active work. Its French
windows, opening on the garden, were shaded by green jalousies,
through which the luxuriant creepers thrust their tendrils and their
leaves; the marble floor was strewn with plaited mats of various
coloured straws; the furniture consisted of a couple of bamboo lounges
and a marble table, on which stood a silver tray bearing fruit and
cooling drinks. The only ornaments it contained were a large mirror and
a couple of handsome vases filled with roses. Everything about the room
was conducive to coolness and repose; and Maraquita, attired in white
muslin, with a palm leaf in her hand, and stretched full length on one
of the couches, with her eyes half closed, was a personification of the
goddess of Sleep or Indolence, or perhaps both.
She started, and coloured slightly as Liz slipped into the room through
the verandah. Her last conversation with Henri de Courcelles was in
her mind. She had been thinking of it as Liz entered, and a secret
intuition made her feel that her adopted sister would allude to the
subject. A craven fear took possession of her, and made her heart beat
to suffocation; but only for a moment. The next she had remembered her
mother’s caution and promised championship, and had resolved to carry
out her advice (if necessary) to the very letter. As she sank back upon
her couch, Lizzie advanced towards her with affectionate solicitude.
‘Have I startled you, Quita? I hope not. It seems so long since we met;
and so much has happened since then, that I felt I must come up and see
you to-day. How are you, dear? Quite strong again?’
As she sat down by the girl’s side, and laid her hand tenderly upon
her arm, Quita turned pettishly away.
‘That is rather a silly question for a lady doctor to ask me, Lizzie.
How can I be quite strong again after such a nasty attack of fever? I
am as weak as I can well be, and mamma is going to take me up to the
hill range to-morrow or next day for change of air.’
‘I am glad of that, dear. It will be the best thing for you, for you
must have suffered much, my poor Quita, I am sure, both in mind and
body.’
Quita did not like this thrust, but she parried it bravely.
‘Well, I _did_ suffer with the fever, as you know, and the only wonder
is that it didn’t kill me, as it has done so many of the coolies. It
was your poor father who saved my life. And then that _he_ should go
himself! I have felt that terribly, Liz. I was very fond of him. He was
like a second father to me, and his sudden death has cut us all up, as
well as you.’
There were tears in Maraquita’s voice as she spoke, which brought the
kindred drops welling up to Lizzie’s eyes, and for a few moments the
girls wept together as for a common loss.
‘Oh, Quita,’ said Liz, as soon as she could speak calmly again, ‘I know
that you and your father and mother have felt for me in my trouble,
for, kind as you have been to us, you can never realise the depth of
it. My father was my world. He stood between me and every anxiety, and
now that he is gone, I feel as if I stood alone, the centre of a storm
of suspicion, and accusation, and reproach.’
Maraquita paled under this allusion, but she felt obliged to say,--
‘What do you mean?’
‘Can you ask me, Quita?’ exclaimed Liz suddenly. ‘Is it possible that
the rumours that are afloat concerning me have failed to reach your
ears? Mr Courtney told me that he had heard them. Surely he repeated
them to you.’
‘No, papa has told me nothing, and I don’t know what rumours you allude
to,’ replied Quita; but had the room not been darkened to shut out the
morning heat, Lizzie must have seen the crimson blood that rushed to
her face with fear of what was coming.
‘Then I must tell you,’ said Lizzie, drawing nearer to the couch, while
she looked cautiously about the room to be sure that no one was within
hearing. ‘Indeed I came up here this morning expressly to tell you,
for the burden of secrecy and shame is more than I can bear.’
Whilst Lizzie beat about the bush, as though afraid to mention the
forbidden topic, Quita had felt timid and constrained, but now that she
seemed prepared to speak out, the defiance that is born of fear entered
the younger girl’s breast, and emboldened her to say or do anything in
the defence of her honour.
‘What secrecy? What shame? What have you been doing, Lizzie?’ she
exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise. ‘You talk in riddles to me
to-day.’
‘Ah, you have heard nothing, Quita. I can see that. You do not know
the terrible duty that has been laid upon me. But turn your face this
way, dear, and let me whisper to you. Don’t mind what I may say, Quita.
Remember that I am your sister, who has known you from a baby, and
that I sympathise with and feel for you in any trouble or sorrow you
may have to endure. You remember the night you came to our bungalow?’
‘I remember the night I was _told_ I went there, Liz; but I was half
delirious with the fever, and can vouch for nothing myself.’
‘I can well understand that you were half crazy with fear and pain,
dearest, but it was not the fever that made you so.’
‘The Doctor said it was the fever,’ argued Maraquita, with wide-open,
innocent eyes. ‘He told papa and mamma so.’
‘I know he did, for _your_ sake, and that they believed it. He
extracted a solemn oath from me at the same time, never to reveal what
I might see or hear that night. And I never _have_ revealed it, Quita,
and I never _will_. It shall lie hidden in my heart until my death.
Only _you_ must help me to bear it, or I shall die.’
Lizzie was sobbing now, though very quietly, behind the shelter of her
hands, whilst Maraquita lay on the couch silent but pondering what she
would say.
‘Speak to me,’ cried Lizzie presently. ‘Say something, for God’s sake,
and put me out of my pain.’
‘What am I to say?’ replied Maraquita. ‘You frighten me when you talk
like that. Has anything terrible happened since your poor father’s
death, and how can _I_ help you out of it?’
‘I will tell you what has happened,’ said Lizzie presently. ‘Mammy Lila
is dead, and the child is with me, and every one is talking about it,
and saying it is mine. What am I to do, Quita--what _am_ I to do? I
cannot speak, because my lips are closed by the oath my father made me
take; and if I _could_ speak, do you think I would betray my dearest
friend? And can I send it from me--the poor, helpless, tender little
creature who has no one to look after it and love it but myself?’
‘But whose child is it?’ inquired Maraquita, with her dark eyes fixed
full on those of her adopted sister.
Lizzie regarded her for a moment in silent consternation. Was it
possible that Quita was in ignorance of her child’s birth, and had her
late father managed so skilfully as to keep her unaware of what had
happened? Such things _had_ been. But the next minute Liz had rejected
the idea with scorn. At any rate Maraquita must have known what lay
before her when she found her way to the Doctor’s bungalow, and if she
affected ignorance now, it was only because she was unaware that Lizzie
knew the whole truth.
‘Oh, Maraquita,’ she exclaimed, ‘don’t be afraid of confessing it to
me, for I know everything! My father was obliged to confide in me. He
could not have managed without my assistance. But my oath seals my lips
to all the world but you. But is it right to keep such a secret from
your father and mother, especially when doing so involves the ruin of
any other woman? You don’t know what the charge of that little infant
has brought upon me? Even Mr Courtney suspects my honesty. And as for
Monsieur de Courcelles--’
‘What has Monsieur de Courcelles to do with it?’ cried Quita hastily.
Lizzie coloured. She had never spoken of her relations with Henri de
Courcelles to Quita before, but this was no time to let feeling get the
better of justice.
‘He has everything to do with _me_,’ she answered, in a low tone.
‘Quita, I have never told you before, that I am engaged to be married
to Monsieur de Courcelles.’
‘_You_--engaged to be married--to _Henri_? Oh, it is not true! You are
deceiving me!’ exclaimed Quita, as she sprang to a sitting position,
and turned a face of ashy pallor to her companion.
But Lizzie suspected no more than she saw. She only thought that Quita
was astonished that she should have been kept in the dark with regard
to so important a subject, and hastened to defend her own conduct.
‘Indeed, it _is_ true! I daresay you are surprised that I should not
have told you, Quita (for I have told you almost everything), but
I have felt so deeply about it, that I _could_ not speak; and our
engagement has never been made public, though it has lasted over a
year.’
‘_You_--engaged to _Henri de Courcelles_!’ repeated Quita incredulously.
‘Yes! Although he has broken it off, of his own accord, and left me, I
cannot feel that I am free from him. For I love him, Quita. I love him
with my whole heart and soul. I did not think it was in me to love any
creature as I love him. And since we have parted, I have been unable
to sleep, or eat, or drink, for longing after him,--longing, above all
things, to clear my character in his eyes, even though I never saw him
afterwards. Oh, Quita, I must, I _must_ do this! To live on letting him
think me false and frail, will kill me! If you will not help me out of
this awful dilemma, my death will be on your head.’
But the news she had just heard had hardened Maraquita’s heart. All the
love she was capable of feeling had been given to De Courcelles, and if
he and Lizzie had combined to deceive her, why they might suffer for
it. That was all she thought of, as she clenched her teeth upon her
upper lip, to prevent her betraying her emotion.
‘Maraquita! won’t you save my love to me?’ wailed Lizzie. ‘All I ask is
to clear my name in the eyes of Henri de Courcelles, and then the rest
of the world may think and say what they choose.’
‘I don’t in the least understand what you are driving at,’ replied
Maraquita. ‘What can _I_ do to make up your quarrel? Monsieur de
Courcelles and you are both old enough to look after yourselves. If he
won’t believe you, he is not likely to believe _me_.’
‘But I cannot speak--my lips are sealed,’ cried Lizzie wildly; ‘and
he will not accept my word, instead of an explanation. Don’t you
understand me, Quita? Henri has heard this scandalous report about the
child, and believes it to be mine. He demands the name of the mother,
and no one but you can satisfy him. Oh, Quita, release me from this
awful vow, that threatens to ruin my character and blast my whole life!
Think, dear--is it fair that I should lose everything I love and value
most, because of your fault? Be brave and generous enough to share the
blame with me, and I promise you before God that it shall never go any
further.’
Maraquita sat straight up on her couch, and stared at her adopted
sister.
‘What do you want me to do? Speak plainly, for I do not comprehend
your meaning.’
‘I want you to tell your parents what you have done. They will pity,
and love, and forgive you, Quita, as I do. They will feel it was your
youth and ignorance that were at fault, and not your heart; and you
will feel happier, my poor sister, when your mother has shared your
secret, and forgiven it. I want you to tell Mr and Mrs Courtney that
the child in my bungalow is yours.’
‘_What!_’ cried Quita shrilly. ‘You want me to tell a lie in order to
screen yourself?’
‘_A lie!_’ repeated Lizzie. ‘You know it is not a lie; you know when
you came to us that night that you were delivered of a daughter, and
that my poor father took charge of it for you. Oh, Quita, if you could
see her,--her little waxen hands and feet, her wistful dark eyes, so
like your own, and her tiny mouth, which just begins to smile, your
mother’s heart would yearn to claim her for your own!’
For one moment Quita trembled at the picture Liz had conjured up, but
the next, fear of ruining her own prospects crushed the softer feeling
in her heart.
‘I deny it!’ she exclaimed loudly. ‘I deny every word you have uttered.
You are either mad, or you mistake me for some other woman. How _dare_
you insinuate that I have ever had a child?’
‘_You deny it!_’ echoed Lizzie, rising to her feet. ‘You can actually
look me in the face, and deny it, Quita?’
‘Most emphatically I do, and resent the insult you have laid upon me.
I know nothing about the child which is in your bungalow. It may be
yours, or any other woman’s, but it certainly is not _mine_; and if my
parents heard you had accused me of such a dishonour, they would turn
you from their doors!’
‘What is all this about?’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney, as she entered the
room. ‘Lizzie, you ought to know better than to let Maraquita excite
herself with talking, when she has scarcely recovered from her late
illness. She will have a relapse, if we do not take care.’
She had heard from Jessica that the Doctor’s daughter had entered the
house, and, fearful of what she might have come to say, had hastened
to the rescue of her daughter. Lizzie stood before her, silent and
confused, but Quita appealed to her mother’s protection at once.
‘Mamma, just hear what Lizzie has told me. She says there is a baby
at her bungalow which was left in the charge of her father, and she
accuses me of being the mother of it, and wants me to tell a lie to you
and papa, in order to screen herself from suspicion.’
‘_Lizzie_ accuses _you_ of being _a mother_!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney,
with well-acted surprise. ‘Oh, it is _impossible_! Quita, you are
dreaming!’
‘Tell mamma if I am dreaming, Lizzie! Repeat to her what you said just
now.’
‘I shall do no such thing, Quita! I said what I did to you in
confidence, and I refuse to repeat it to any one.’
‘Because you know how mamma would resent such a foul calumny. Oh,
mamma,’ continued Quita to her mother, ‘what have I ever done to be
accused of such a dreadful thing? What would Sir Russell say if he
heard of it?’
‘I cannot believe my ears,’ said Mrs Courtney. ‘Do I hear aright,
Lizzie, that you have _dared_ to link my daughter’s name with such
a shameful story? What induced you to do it? Speak! I must have an
answer.’
‘I cannot speak, Mrs Courtney; I have nothing to say.’
‘Because you know yourself to be guilty. Don’t imagine that we have not
heard the scandal that is abroad concerning you. But I little thought
you would have the audacity to try and throw the blame upon my poor
Maraquita, she who has been like a sister to you.’
‘I have never denied the benefits which I and my poor father have
received from your family, Mrs Courtney, nor been ungrateful for them.’
‘And what do you call your conduct of this morning, then? You have
deceived us all, Lizzie,--Mr Courtney, myself, and your poor father. We
thought you a pure and good girl, or you never would have been allowed
to associate with my daughter.’
‘I _am_ pure,’ interposed Lizzie, with the indignant tears standing on
her hot cheeks. ‘I have done nothing to make you regret the favours you
have shown me.’
‘Oh, don’t speak to me like that, Lizzie, when you know that you are
the mother of a child which you dare not own.’
‘I am not! I am NOT!’ cried the girl, half choked with her emotion and
sense of impotency to resent the charge made against her.
‘And I say you _are_,’ continued Mrs Courtney, ‘and all San Diego says
it with me. And, not content with degrading yourself, you would try to
degrade _my_ daughter also. Shame upon you! Is this your gratitude?
You who, but for our bounty would have been pointed at all your days
as the daughter of a felon, who have now lowered yourself beyond the
ordinary level of your sex.’
‘Oh, Mrs Courtney, say what you like to me, but spare the memory of my
dead father!’ cried Lizzie, through her sobs.
‘If I have not spared it, you have only yourself, and your own conduct,
to blame. I have been very good to you hitherto, Lizzie, but I can be
so no longer. You have raised a barrier between us with your own hand.
For the sake of his old friendship for your father, Mr Courtney wishes
you to remain on the plantation, but you are no fit companion for
Maraquita, and from this day you must consider the doors of the White
House are closed against you.’
‘You will not find me attempt to alter your decision, Mrs Courtney. I
came up here this morning to ask Maraquita to do me a simple act of
justice, but she has refused it, and I can no longer look upon her as
my sister and my friend, nor shall I have any wish to seek her society.’
‘Insolent!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney. ‘Why, under no circumstances would
you be permitted to do so. Maraquita is engaged to be married to the
Governor of the island, Sir Russell Johnstone. In a few weeks she will
be reigning at Government House, and will receive no lady there who
cannot vouch for the possession of an unspotted reputation. So now
perhaps you will see the harm you have done yourself by your impudent
attempt to forge off your own error upon her.’
‘It would have made no difference to my behaviour, madam, if Maraquita
had already been the Governor’s wife. The blameless burden laid upon me
still remains, and she will not lift it by the raising of her little
finger. I suppose it is my fate to suffer and be silent. But I think
the time will come when Quita will be sorry she had not more pity for
me to-day.’
‘Mamma, mamma,’ cried Quita hysterically, ‘tell her to go! I can bear
no more of her reproaches. It is wicked of her to speak like that. You
know that I have done nothing; but if such a story were to come to Sir
Russell’s ears, it might ruin me for ever.’
‘It shall _not_ come to his ears!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney angrily; ‘and
if you attempt to repeat it, Elizabeth Fellows, I will have your name,
and your dead father’s name, branded from one end of San Diego to the
other until not a soul in the island shall speak to you. See if I do
not.’
‘You will never have the opportunity to carry out your cruel threat,
madam. I have told your daughter, and I tell you, that my vow of
secrecy to my beloved father is sacred, and nothing shall make me break
it. From this hour, I shall never mention the subject to any living
creature again.’
And with those words Liz turned on her heel and walked out of the White
House. As she disappeared, Maraquita threw herself into her mother’s
arms in a burst of tears.
‘Oh, I am lost--I am lost!’ she cried, trembling with fear. ‘We have
made her angry, and she may go and tell the story everywhere, from
revenge. How I wish I had never seen De Courcelles. It was wicked of
him to take advantage of me like that. And all the time he was engaged
to be married to Lizzie. Oh, mother, I hate him--_I hate him!_ I wish
that he was dead!’
It is the proof of an ephemeral and fancied passion that directly
misfortune or peril comes upon it, it turns to reproaching and
dislike. There is little need to say that Maraquita’s love for Henri
de Courcelles was founded on a basis of self-esteem. Had it been
otherwise, their mutual error would have made her cling all the closer
to him as her one haven of safety.
‘If he _is_ engaged to her, my dear,’ replied Mrs Courtney, with a view
to consolation, ‘so much the better. They are a very suitable pair,
and their marriage would rid you of a troublesome suitor. I have heard
something of it before, but subsequent events made me think I was
mistaken. But I don’t like Monsieur de Courcelles. I consider him a
dangerous enemy, and should be glad to know that he had settled down in
life.’
‘But you _promised_ me that papa should send him away from Beauregard,’
said Quita fearfully.
‘And so he shall, my love, as soon as ever we are on the hill range.
You may rest assured of that. Only we have no power to send him out of
San Diego, and he may prove troublesome to us yet. However, I have my
own story to tell papa, and it is one that will provide against any
emergency. But the first thing to be done, Quita, is to get you away;
and the next, to make you Lady Johnstone. Then we shall be perfectly
safe.’
‘You will take care that no one else comes in to see me to-day,’ said
Quita languidly, ‘for I feel quite worn out by the annoyance I have
undergone?’
‘Certainly, my dearest girl. Jessica shall see that you are not
disturbed. And now try and sleep, Quita, and don’t be afraid that there
will be any repetition of so disagreeable a scene. I think I have let
Miss Lizzie have a piece of my mind, and that she will see I mean
what I said. Depend upon it, my dear, that no ill-natured stories or
repetitions can ever harm you in the future. The girl is too honest
to break her word; and if she suffers a little from keeping it, she
deserves as much, for her mean attempt to coerce you. Now, you must
promise me to think no more about the matter.’
Maraquita gave the required promise, because she wanted to be left
alone; but as she lay in the silent and shaded room, the description
that her adopted sister had given her of little waxen hands and
fingers, of two dark wistful eyes, and a baby mouth beginning to smile,
recurred again and again to her, until something very like the longing
of motherhood stirred in her bosom, and made her sob herself to sleep.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]