CHAPTER VIII.
M
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 roomsinging 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 weremine, I would die sooner than give up my mother’s right to feed and cherish you, yes, evenif 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 thehot 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 thereturning 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 babyon 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 deCourcelles 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 morningtoilet. 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 yearsunder 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 whyherfather’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 inhis 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 wagesthat 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 wastall 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 beatus?’ 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. Hewas 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’tdarestrike 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 daymywhip strikeyou.’
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 withfresh 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 LizFellows’ 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 butonecould 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 poorlittle 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 inherbed, 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 showedall 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 wantyoufor?’ asked De Courcelles, as he turned his steps towards the bungalow, with the yellow girl by his side.
‘How canItell Massa Courcelles? P’r’aps Miss Liz want me to mind de baby a bit. P’r’aps she want to askmy ’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 notknow?’ 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 dangerof 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—forhe could not doubtwhichchild 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 somethingstronger 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 Courcelleshurried 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 datbaby 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 thatshewas to accompany me backagain. 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?’ sheanswered; ‘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, ‘whatRosa may think or say.’
‘But it may be a great deal tome. 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 theydareto say?’ she exclaimed, as she turned andfaced 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 doyousay?’
‘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 tohim. 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 sayyou must, or everything shall be over between us!’
‘Henri!’ she exclaimed earnestly, ‘think—think what you are doing. You cannot possibly suspectme! 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 forone 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. Youmayhave 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, rushingafter 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 shallnotbelieve 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 Ithought 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 frommy 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 rememberedthat 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.