A CROWN OF SHAME.

VOL. I.

A CROWN OF SHAME.

A NOVEL.

BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’
ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1888.

[All rights reserved.]

EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COMPANY
PRINTERS

CONTENTS.

A CROWN OF SHAME.

POPULAR NEW NOVELS.

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ARMY SOCIETY; or, Life in a Garrison Town. By John Strange Winter. Author of ‘Bootles’ Baby.’ Cloth gilt, 6s.; also picture boards, 2s.

Also now ready, in cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each.

GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton. By John Strange Winter. Also picture boards, 2s.

IN THE SHIRES. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart.

THE OUTSIDER. By Hawley Smart.

THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT. By Mrs Edward Kennard.

STRAIGHT AS A DIE. By the same Author.

BY WOMAN’S WIT. By Mrs Alexander. Author of ‘The Wooing O’t.’

KILLED IN THE OPEN. By Mrs Edward Kennard.

IN A GRASS COUNTRY. By Mrs H. Lovett-Cameron.

A DEVOUT LOVER. By the same Author.

TWILIGHT TALES. By Mrs Edward Kennard. Illustrated.

SHE CAME BETWEEN. By Mrs Alexander Fraser.

THE CRUSADE OF ‘THE EXCELSIOR.’ By Bret Harte.

A REAL GOOD THING. By Mrs Edward Kennard.

CURB AND SNAFFLE. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart.

DREAM FACES. By the Hon. Mrs Fetherstonhaugh.

A SIEGE BABY. By John Strange Winter.

MONA’S CHOICE. By Mrs Alexander. Author of ‘The Wooing O’t.’

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A CROWN OF SHAME.

CHAPTER I.

IT was the close of the hot season in San Diego, and the thunderous clouds that hung over the island rendered the atmosphere still more oppressive. Liz, the Doctor’s daughter, stood at the open door of their leaf-thatched bungalow, gazing out into the starless night, and wondering when the rain would come, to relieve the intense heat and disseminate the sickness that was so rapidly thinning the population. The stillness was so unbroken that one might almost be said to feel it. Not a breath of air stirred the light feathery branches of the bamboo, not even the chirp of a solitary insect could be distinguished from their covert in the long grass, nor a note from the songsters that crowded the surrounding woods. The trailing creepers that hung like a gorgeous eastern canopy of crimson and purple and orange from the roof of the verandah, brushed their blossoms against her face, as she thrust it into the night, but they brought no sense of refreshment with them. Liz felt stifled for want of air, as she withdrew from the verandah, and re-entered the bungalow, with a deep-drawn sigh. But the sigh was for others. She was not a woman to make otherwise than lightly of her own pain or inconvenience. To witness suffering or distress, and be unable to relieve it, that was the great drawback of life to Elizabeth Fellows. She was not a girl, and the existence she led had tended to make her older than her age. She was five-and-twenty, and ever since she was a little child she had been motherless, and brought up to depend upon herself, and to minister to others rather than be ministered to. Her father, Dr Fellows, was generally considered to be a reserved, morose, and rather disagreeable man: but Liz knew otherwise. She was his only child, and ever since she could remember they two had lived together, and alone, and he had been both mother and father to her. He was not lively and talkative, even to Liz—but she had always felt that he was unhappy, though something in his manner had forbidden her inquiring the cause of his reticence and melancholy. But he had never said an unkind word to her. Gravely and affectionately he had brought his daughter up to help him in his work, and Liz, who possessed an active, clever brain and a large amount of courage, had taken an immense interest in the science of medicine and surgery, and knew almost as much about it as himself. Dr Fellows left all the simple cases in his daughter’s hands, and for a long time past she had been almost worshipped amongst the negro population of San Diego, as a species of white angel who came to their women and their children with healing in her hands. And both the Doctor and his daughter had had plenty of work to do during the last few months. Fever was reigning paramount in San Diego. Both Europeans and natives had been falling around them like rotten sheep; and with the epidemic had come a murrain on the rice-fields and sugar-cane plantations, so that the people had to contend with starvation as well as disease; and awful rumours of mutiny and insurrection had commenced to make the residents and planters feel alarmed. Inside the Doctor’s cottage were grouped some score of negresses, most of them with infants in their arms. Their work was over for the day, and this was the hour when they came to Liz to have their bottles refilled with medicines, and to show her what progress their wailing little ones had made.

As she stepped back amongst them, her face assumed an expression of pity and sympathy for their distress, that did indeed make her look like an angel of goodness. She was not a beautiful woman—far from it—but it is not, as a rule, the most beautiful faces that are the most comforting to look upon in a time of difficulty or danger.

Liz had a tall, well-developed figure, which her plain print dress showed off to perfection. Her skin was clear, and soft, and white, and her abundant fair hair was tucked smoothly away behind her ears, and twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Her grey eyes beamed with a tender, kindly light, that had no power to conceal her feelings, and her firm, well-shaped mouth showed firmness and decision. In fact, she was a typical English woman, with rather a majestic bearing about her, as if she knew her power and rejoiced in it. But, above all, she was a woman to love and trust in,—one who would never tell a lie nor betray a friend, and yet who, once convinced that her own trust had been betrayed, would stamp the image of the offender from her heart, if she died under the process. As the negresses caught sight of her again, they were startled to see the tears upon her cheeks, hardly believing they were shed for them.

‘Missy feeling ill?’ ‘Missy like a little wine?’ ‘I go calling Massa to see Missy?’

‘No! No! What are you talking about? I am as well as possible!’ cried Liz, hastily brushing her tears away. ‘I was only thinking.’

‘Ah, Missy,’ said one poor mother, regarding an attenuated morsel of humanity which lay just breathing and no more across her lap, ‘I thinkin’ my little Sambo never run about again!’

‘Don’t lose heart, Chrissie,’ replied Liz, in her grave, sweet voice, as she knelt down and laid her hand on the baby’s forehead. ‘He is very weak, poor little fellow, but so long as he can eat, there is hope for him. I will change his medicine, and perhaps we shall have the rain by to-morrow. A few cool nights would set him up again.’

‘Ah! Missy very good to say so, but we shall have plenty more weeks hot weather yet. Poor little Sambo under ground before the rain sets in.’

‘And my poor girl can’t stand no ways!’ cried another; ‘and Rosa’s boy die this afternoon.’

‘Oh, what can I do—what can I do for you all?’ exclaimed Liz, with her hands to her head.

At this moment, the group in the Doctor’s bungalow was augmented by a fresh arrival. This was Rosa, the yellow girl, who rushed in like a whirlwind, with her dead child in her arms. Liz had taken an interest in this girl, but it was one which Rosa strongly resented. Her child was born out of wedlock, and the gentle remonstrances on her conduct which the Doctor’s daughter had urged upon her, had been taken by the uneducated creature as an insult rather than a kindness. Her poor little dead Carlo had been tended as carefully as any of Liz’s other patients, but the bereaved mother chose to think it otherwise, as she burst in upon them.

‘He is dead!’ she cried frantically, as she almost flung the body upon the table. ‘And now, perhaps you will be satisfied, Miss Lizzy. Now you will be glad to think there is one bastard child less on my massa’s plantation, and that I have nothing—nothing left to remind me of my lover who has sailed away to America.’

‘Oh, Rosa! how can you so misjudge me?’ said Liz, as she put one arm round the weeping girl. But Rosa flung it off.

‘It is true!’ she exclaimed fiercely; ‘you said he had better never have been born, and now you have taken no trouble to keep him in this world. I suppose you thought it would be a right punishment for my sin. But I hate you—and the punishment shall come back on your own head! I hope I shall live to see the day when you shall weep as I weep, and have nothing left you but the burden of the shame.’

‘Rosa, you are not yourself! You do not know what you are saying,’ replied Lizzy calmly. ‘It is God Who has taken your baby to Himself, and neither I nor any one could have kept him here. Try and think of it like that, Rosa. Think of little Carlo, happy and well for ever in the gardens of heaven, and you will not speak so wildly and bitterly again.’

‘I shall! I shall!’ cried the girl, in the same tone, as she seized the body again and strained it in her arms; ‘and I shall never feel satisfied, Missy Liz, till you suffer as I have done.’

And with that she rushed out again into the darkness.

Liz leant against the table, and trembled. These were the things that had the power to upset her. To toil for these people early and late; to be at their beck and call whenever they chose to summons her; to lie awake at night thinking of the best means to relieve their trouble, and then to meet with ingratitude and reproaches. It did indeed seem hard! But it did not make her voice less sweet whilst addressing the others. The room in which they were assembled was long and narrow—the only sitting-room in the bungalow—and furnished with severe simplicity. The matted floor, the cane chairs, and plain unvarnished table, all told of a life of labour rather than of luxury, and except for Liz Fellows’ desk and workbox, and a few books which lay scattered about, it contained few traces of occupation. Yet it was the very absence of such things that proved the inmates of the cottage were too busy to think of much beyond their profession. A large cupboard, with a window in it, at the end of the apartment, served as a surgery, and there Liz soon turned to mix the febrifuges and tonics required by her patients. As she did so, she was greeted by a newcomer.

‘Hullo! Miss Fellows, as busy as usual, I suppose, and no time even to bid a poor mariner welcome.’

Liz turned at the sound of the cheery voice, with her welcome ready in her eyes.

‘Oh, Captain Norris! Are you back again already? When did you arrive?’

The stranger’s face fell.

‘Back again already! And I’ve been absent from San Diego for at least six months, and thinking they felt like six years! When did I arrive? Why, this evening! The “Trevelyan” dropped anchor exactly at six o’clock, and directly I could get away, I came up to see you.’

‘It is very good of you, and my father will be delighted to see you. I expect him in every minute. Sit down, Captain Norris, whilst I mix the medicines for these poor women, who are anxious to get to their homes again, and then I will hear all your news.’

She looked so cool and collected as, having dismissed her patients, she drew a chair to the table and sat down beside him, that Captain Norris did not know where to begin. He was a fine handsome young man, with dark eyes and hair; the skipper of a merchant vessel, and every inch a sailor; and he was very much in love with Lizzie Fellows. He carried several neatly tied up parcels in his hands, but he was too nervous to allude to them at once.

‘I am sorry to find you have fever in the island,’ he said, by way of a commencement.

‘Oh, it is terrible—a regular plague!’ replied Lizzie; ‘and though my father has worked early and late amongst the negroes, we have lost patients by the dozen. It is sickening to hear of the numbers of deaths, and to witness the trouble;—enough to break one’s heart.’

‘But you keep well?’ he inquired anxiously.

‘Oh, yes! Nothing ever ails me! I have too much to do, and no time to be ill. But I am very sad, and somewhat disheartened.’

‘Mr Courtney must have experienced a great loss.’

‘Yes! His plantation is sadly thinned, but the deaths have been chiefly amongst the children. Mr Courtney is very good to them, and spares no expense to provide them with comforts. It is no one’s fault. It is the will of God, and we must wait patiently till He removes the scourge. But there is great distress, and even starvation, amongst the native population in other parts of the island, and some degree of insubordination.’

‘And how is Mr Courtney’s beautiful daughter?’

‘Maraquita! She is not ill, but she has been very languid lately, which we attribute to the heat. But I have not seen so much of her during the last few months. I suppose she is too gay to have any time to spare for us.’

‘And Henri de Courcelles! Is he still the overseer at Beauregard?’ demanded Captain Norris, after a short pause.

Liz coloured.

‘Yes! Why should he not be so? Mr Courtney has every trust and confidence in him.’

‘So much the worse, I think, for Mr Courtney.’

She fired up directly.

‘Captain Norris, you have no right to make such an insinuation! What do you know against Monsieur de Courcelles? It is unworthy of you to try and set his friends against him, behind his back.’

‘I am sorry if you think so, Miss Fellows; I hoped that you might not be so intimate with De Courcelles as you used to be. But let us talk of something else. How is your father?’

‘Much the same as usual, Captain Norris. Father is never very lively, as you know. Sometimes I fancy this climate must disagree with him, he is so silent and depressed; but he has always been the same, and he strenuously denies any feeling of illness.’

‘It is a dull life that you lead here with him, Liz.’

‘Don’t say that! A useful life can never be dull, and I have many pleasures beside.’

‘But you would like to see a little more of the world, would you not? You would like to visit your native country, England, and make the acquaintance of your relations?’

Liz looked at him wistfully.

‘I don’t think I should, at least under present circumstances. I am afraid the pain of leaving San Diego, and all those whom I have known from childhood, would out-balance the pleasure of seeing fresh people and places. I have known no other home than San Diego, Captain Norris, and I don’t think I could bear to leave the—the plantation.’

He did not answer her, but commenced, somewhat nervously, to undo the packages he held. As their contents came to view, Liz saw spread before her on the table a handsome morocco desk, a photographic album, and a complete set of silver ornaments.

‘Oh, how beautiful!’ she could not help exclaiming.

‘They are for you,’ said her companion brusquely; ‘I brought them from England expressly for you.’

‘For me!’ repeated Liz wonderingly. ‘Oh, Captain Norris, how very good it is of you! Whatever made you think of me?’

He seized the hand which was feeling the soft texture of the desk.

‘I do not know, I cannot tell you, but it is the truth, Liz, that wherever I am, I always think of you. All the time that I have been away, your face and the sound of your voice has haunted me, and prevented my being charmed by any other woman. I love you as I have never loved before—as I never shall love again, because I shall never meet another woman so worthy of my love and my esteem.’

‘Oh, Captain Norris, pray don’t talk to me like that! You are mistaken; I am not the good woman you take me for.’

‘I must talk, and you must hear me to the end, Liz! I wanted to say all this to you last time I was in San Diego, but a grave doubt prevented me. But now I have come back to find you free, and I cannot hold my tongue any longer. I am not a boy, to be uncertain of my feelings. I am a man and my own master, and making a sufficient income to keep you in comfort. Be my wife, Liz; I won’t ask you to marry in a hurry, but promise you will be my wife some day, and I will summon up all the patience I possess, and live on the hope of the future.’

‘I cannot,’ she said, in a low voice.

‘You cannot!’ he echoed; ‘and why?’

‘I don’t think you should ask me. I don’t think you have the right to ask me. But it is impossible. I shall never be your wife.’

‘Does any one stand between us?’

Liz was silent. She would not tell the truth, and she could not tell a lie. Captain Norris turned on her almost fiercely in his keen disappointment.

‘There does,’ he exclaimed. ‘I know it, without your speaking, and I know who it is into the bargain,—the same man who drove me from San Diego last time without speaking,—Henri de Courcelles.’

‘You have no right to make the assertion, without authority,’ retorted Liz Fellows; ‘but since you have done so, I will not stoop to deny it. You are right; I am engaged to be married to Monsieur de Courcelles, but the fact is not generally known, and so I trust you will respect my confidence.’

Hugh Norris dropped his head upon his hands.

‘Engaged,’ he murmured, ‘really and truly engaged! My God! why did I not have the courage to speak before?’

His despair roused her compassion. She drew nearer, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

‘Indeed, it would have been of no use, dear friend,’ she said gently; ‘Henri and I have made up our minds upon this matter for some time past, and should have been married long ago, had his position been a little better assured.’

‘Oh, of course, I stand no chance against him!’ replied Captain Norris bitterly. ‘Monsieur de Courcelles, with his handsome face, and dandy dress, galloping about the plantation on his switch-tailed mustang, must needs carry everything before him. But he is not true to you, Liz, all the same—and sooner or later you will find it out. If he is engaged to be married to you, he is a scoundrel, for he spends half his time at the great house making love to the planter’s pretty daughter.’

‘How dare you say so?’ cried Liz, springing from her chair, and standing before him with her face all aflame. ‘What right have you to take away my lover’s character before me?’

She had been too bashful to call him by that name before, but now that she heard him (as she thought) so cruelly maligned, she felt he needed the confession of her love for a protection against his slanderers.

‘Don’t be angry with me, Liz! don’t be offended, but I feel I must tell you the truth, even at the risk of never speaking to you again. De Courcelles is not worthy of you. Every one sees it but yourself. His attentions to Maraquita Courtney are the common talk of the town, and I heard bets passing pretty freely this evening as to whether the planter would ever countenance his impudent pretentions to her hand.’

‘It is not true,’ repeated Liz, though her face had turned very pale; ‘but if it were, I know no reason why Mr Courtney should object to Henri as a son-in-law.’

‘You are wilfully blind to the fact then that he has black blood in his veins.’

Liz flushed crimson. How impossible it seems, under the most favourable circumstances, completely to overcome the natural prejudice against the mixture of blood; but she was true to her colours.

‘I know more about him than you can tell me, Captain Norris! I know that his father was French and his mother a Spanish Creole. But it makes no difference to me. If he were all black, he is the man I love, and I will not stand by quietly and hear him defamed.’

‘Who defamed him, Miss Fellows? I merely stated the general opinion as to De Courcelles’ chances of winning Miss Courtney, though whether he succeeds or not is a matter of the most perfect indifference to me. But with regard to yourself, it is a different matter. I may be strong enough to bear my own disappointment, but I will not see you throw your happiness away without making an effort to save you. Oh, Liz, my darling,’ cried Hugh Norris, forgetting himself in his anxiety for her, ‘throw this man over, for Heaven’s sake, or you will rue it your whole life long!’

‘Your advice has somewhat lost its effect from what preceded it,’ replied Liz coldly, ‘and I must request you to spare it me in the future, Captain Norris. I also am old enough to know my own mind, and my friends from my enemies. I am very sorry that you came here to-night—still more so that you should have presumed to speak as you have done. I should have liked to keep you as a friend, but you have made that impossible. Please to relieve me of your presence, and let me quit the room until you are gone.’

‘Oh, I will go—sharp enough!’ said Captain Norris, as he rose from his chair and walked towards the door. ‘You shall not ask me to leave you twice, Liz.’

‘Stay!’ cried the girl impetuously. ‘You have forgotten your presents. Take them with you.’

‘Won’t you even keep the poor things I have carried so far for you?’ he asked her humbly.

‘Keep them!’ she echoed scornfully. ‘Keep a reminder always before me of the man who maligned my dearest friend to me? What do you take me for? No! If you have any wish left that I should forget this evening, and the pain you have caused me, take your presents away with you.’

‘You set me a humbling task,’ said Hugh Norris, as he collected his despised gifts and repacked them in their papers. ‘But I will obey you. I would rather throw them into the swamp, than leave them here to annoy you. Only remember, Liz, that I love you, and that when the day comes (as it will come) when your other lover forsakes you, I will prove what I say.’

He went then without another word, though as he turned his eyes towards her for a farewell look, Liz saw a misty light beaming in them, which did not make her feel as triumphant as she thought she should have done to have gained the victory over him.

She was still standing by the table where he had left her, feeling hot and cold by turns, as she pondered over the rumour he had repeated, when a hasty footstep passed over the threshold, and Henri de Courcelles stood before her.

CHAPTER II.

BEFORE she turned her head to greet him, Liz knew who had entered the bungalow. The marvellous instinct of love made her feel his presence, before she perceived it, and this instinct, common to all human nature, was deeply engrafted in that of Liz Fellows. She had a heart that not only wound itself round that of those she loved but entered into it, and made its home there, and she loved Henri de Courcelles with all the strength and passion of which she was capable. Their attachment had commenced more than a year before, when she and her father had brought De Courcelles through a dangerous illness, and Liz had nursed him into convalescence with the tenderest care, and the young man had rewarded her devotion with a confession of love, which she believed to be as genuine as her own. Before he rose from his bed of sickness Henri de Courcelles had pledged himself to marry Liz Fellows, and at the time perhaps had honestly wished to do so. But there were obstacles in the way of an immediate union, and the engagement had never been publicly announced. Henri de Courcelles was a man whose personal appearance would have proved sufficient justification in most women’s eyes for Liz’s excessive love for him. From his French father he had inherited a strength of limb and muscle, and a symmetry of proportion, which is not common amongst tropical nations, whilst his beautiful Creole mother had given him her Spanish eyes and colouring, with a little trace—though too slight to be offensive—of her African blood. Taken altogether, Henri de Courcelles was a very handsome and athletic young fellow, and with an easy grace about his bearing and mode of expressing himself that made him very fascinating. That his visits to her father’s bungalow had been shorter and less frequent of late had never struck Liz as remarkable until Captain Norris had drawn her attention to the probable reason.

She was not of a jealous temperament, and where we love and fear to lose, we will hatch up any excuse to lull our doubts to rest, sooner than wrong the creature on whom all our hopes are fixed. Besides, Liz was too busy a woman to spend her days sighing over an absent lover. When she was not mixing and dispensing medicines, or visiting her patients, or reading the medical works recommended by her father, she had her household affairs to look after, or needlework to do, and oftener longed for more time than for less. And De Courcelles was a busy man also. She would hardly have liked him if he had not been so. He was overseer on the coffee plantation of the rich planter Mr Courtney, on whose estate Dr Fellows lived, and had the complete control and surveillance of the negro population. It made Liz’s heart grieve sometimes to hear the coolies complain of his harshness and severity. She did not believe in her heart that Henri could be unjust to any one and thought the negroes only wished to escape the punishments they had incurred—still she could not help wishing, with a sigh, that he had the power to control them without punishment. But of course he could not be in the wrong—not entirely, that is to say. As she recognised his footstep on the present occasion, and all the painful doubt she was experiencing fled like magic before the pleasure of his presence, any one with a knowledge of physiognomy could have read how the woman loved him. Her pale face flushed with expectation—her quiet eyes glowed with fire—her whole frame trembled in acknowledgment of the man’s supremacy over her. But as he advanced to the centre of the room and she could discern his features, Liz started with concern.

‘Henri! what is the matter? Are you ill?’

‘Ill! No,’ he answered pettishly, as he flung himself into a chair. ‘You are so mixed up with your pills and potions, Liz, that you can never imagine any other cause for a man’s moods than illness. I’m right enough. What should ail me?’

‘Ah! this dreadful fever, Henri. Forgive me if I am nervous for the safety of you and all whom I love. It strikes down its victims like a plague, and its terrible rapidity frightens me. It makes one feel so helpless. Sometimes it takes but a few hours to carry off its victims. I have been at three deathbeds to-day. It is enough to make a woman tremble at the least symptom of illness in her own people. And the epidemic seems to be on the increase. Nothing that my father does seems to stop it.’

‘Well, try and find some livelier topic of conversation, Liz, for mercy’s sake. It’s enough to give any fellow the blues to hear you talk. I wish to goodness you followed some other calling, or rather none at all; but since it is unavoidable, spare me the nauseous details. I have enough worries of my own without discussing your professional difficulties.’

Her sympathy was roused at once.

‘What worries, dear? Tell me of them. Can I do nothing to help you out of them?’

He coloured slightly under his dark skin as he stretched himself and said,—

‘Nothing—nothing. They are matters of a purely private nature. But you know how I detest the coloured people, Liz. It is sufficiently annoying to me to be employed amongst the brutes all day long, without having to listen to a story of their grievances when my work is over. I come here for rest, not to talk about niggers.’

‘Yes, I know, Henri, and it makes me happy to hear you say that you expect to find rest with me. But if you saw them suffer as I do, you could not fail to feel for them. Have you been very busy lately?’

‘Pretty well. Why do you ask?’

‘Because it is a week since you have been at the cottage.’

‘You must be mistaken. I have called here several times when you were out. There’s no finding you at home now-a-days, Liz.’

‘I have been very much occupied, I know,’ she answered quietly, ‘but not so much so as to make me forget that you have not been here, Henri.’

The remembrance of what Captain Norris had repeated to her recurred to her mind, and on the spur of the moment she determined to learn the truth.

‘You have been a great deal at the White House, have you not?’ she continued.

He flushed again, and turned uneasily in his chair, so as to avoid the straightforward glance of her eyes.

‘Why do you ask me that question? I am at the White House every morning with my employer. It is part of my business to go there.’

‘I don’t mean at Mr Courtney’s office, Henri. I meant that you are a great deal with Mrs Courtney and Maraquita—at least I have been told so.’

‘I am much obliged to whoever was kind enough to interest himself in my private affairs. Am I indebted to your old flame Captain Norris for spreading untruths about me? I met him skulking round the bungalow as I came along this evening.’

‘Captain Norris does not skulk’, replied Liz quickly. ‘He has no need to do so. Neither is he a “flame” of mine, and you ought to know me better than to say so, Henri.’

‘Well, it looks like it, when you take up the cudgels so warmly in his defence. However, we’ll let that drop. What has he been telling you against me?’

‘Nothing—or at least nothing of his own accord. He only repeated the common rumour—that you are a great deal in the society of Maraquita, and that—that people are talking about it.’

She stood for a few moments after that, expecting to hear an indignant denial from his lips, but De Courcelles was silent.

‘Henri,’ she continued softly, turning a very pale face towards him, ‘it is not true?’

‘What is not true?’ he inquired brusquely.

‘That—that you are tired of me, and making love to Maraquita Courtney.’

‘Of course it isn’t true; it’s a d—d lie, and the next time I meet that Norris, I’ll break every bone in his body for saying so.’

She was all penitence for having suspected his fidelity in a moment. She flung herself on her knees beside his chair, and threw one arm around his shoulders.

‘Oh, Henri! forgive me for having repeated such a slander, but it hurt me so, I couldn’t keep it to myself. But it was not Captain Norris’s fault. He only told me what he had heard in the town. He did not think, perhaps, that it was of so much consequence to me. And I know that you are very intimate at the White House; more so even than I am.’

‘Well, Mrs Courtney is very civil to me, and I can hardly refuse her hospitality, on the plea that I am engaged to be married, can I?’

‘No! No! of course not. But still—though I am sure that you are true to me,’ cried the woman, fighting against her own horrible suspicions (for why should you have asked me to marry you, unless you loved me?) still, Maraquita is very lovely, and she likes you, Henri, I am certain of that. No! don’t interrupt me! Let me say all I have to say to the end, and then perhaps I shall forget it. You see, dear, I—I am not beautiful (how I wish, for your sake, that I were), and there is nothing in me worthy of your affection, except my love! And I have seen something of men in my lifetime, and I can understand something of their temptations. Quita has been a flirt from a little child. Who should know it better than myself, who have been like a sister to her from her birth? I was only five years old when my father brought me to live at Beauregard, and Quita was not born for two years after that. I remember so well the first visit I paid to the White House to see the wonderful new baby, and how proud I was when old Jessica let me hold her in my arms—’

‘Stop!’ exclaimed De Courcelles authoritatively. ‘What has all this to do with me? I have no interest in these details about Miss Courtney’s birth.’

‘I only mentioned it to show you how well I must know Maraquita’s character. We have grown up together, Henri, and I can almost read her thoughts. She likes you more than a friend, and when I heard the rumours about you, I felt as if I could have no chance against her.’

Henri de Courcelles had risen from his seat during her last words, almost shaking off her caressing hand in his impatience, and stood beside her, white and angry.

‘I will hear no more of this nonsense,’ he cried; ‘I have told you already it is a lie, and you insult me by repeating it. Miss Courtney and I are nothing to each other, and it will ruin me with my employer if this absurd report gains ground. I shall get kicked out of Beauregard for nothing at all, and then all chance of our marriage will be at an end, and I shall probably have to leave San Diego.’

‘It will not gain ground through my means, and I am only too glad to know that it is not true,’ replied Liz, rising to her feet also.

She would have liked him to have put his arms round her and assured her with a kiss it was all an error, but she was too proud to show the blank disappointment that crept over her. Henri had denied the scandal, and she was bound to believe him, but still she was not satisfied, though she could hardly have given a reason for it.

‘Of course—of course—I knew it was not true,’ she repeated, in a quivering voice, as she tried to persuade herself that all was right between them. ‘For once you promised me—do you remember it, Henri?—that if any one ever came between us, you would let me know, so that at any rate I should retain your confidence, even if I lost your love.’

‘You harp so much on the question of losing my love,’ he replied angrily, ‘that you make me think you have no further use for it.’

Liz looked bewildered.

‘Oh! what have I said to make you speak like that?’ she exclaimed. ‘When have I let you think that I was weary of you—we who have agreed to pass our lives together? Oh, Henri! is it my fault? Has this misunderstanding sprung from my apparent coldness? If so—forgive me! For indeed—indeed—’ continued Liz earnestly—all her reticence vanishing before the fear of offending her lover, ‘I am not cold. I have so much important work to do, and serious things to think of, that I am afraid sometimes to let my thoughts dwell too much on our affection, lest I should not keep my mind clear. But that is not indifference. It is too much love,’ she said, in a faltering voice.

‘I have never doubted your love,’ replied De Courcelles, softened by the sound of her tearful voice, ‘and I don’t want you to doubt mine, and especially not to listen to tales that have no foundation, and are calculated to injure my reputation. Maraquita Courtney is nothing to me, and never has been, and never will be. You may take my word for that!’

‘Will you swear it?’ cried Liz eagerly.

He hesitated a moment, and then he said,—

‘Yes, I swear it by the God Who made us both!’

The woman dropped down into her chair again, and burst into a flood of hysterical tears.

‘Oh! I felt it! I knew it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have been so happy in the possession of your love. I was sure that Heaven could not be so cruel as to take it away from me.’

The young man crossed over to her, and laid his hand upon her bent head.

‘No! no!’ he said soothingly. ‘No one shall take it away. You are not like yourself to-night, Liz. Where is all your courage gone to? You, who can stand by quietly and see an operation performed, or a patient die, who are the coolest and most collected woman I have ever met with. Why! I don’t know you in this new character.’

‘I have no courage where you are concerned,’ she answered passionately, as she looked up and met the glance of his dark eyes. ‘You are my life, Henri, and everything that is best in me, would die without you.’

He winced a little as she spoke, but he professed to laugh at her vehemence.

‘It will not be my fault if you are ever put to the test, Liz. How often have I told you that my life belongs to you, since, without your skill and care, I should have lost it. Come, kiss me, and forget what has passed between us. It is all the fault of that meddling fellow Norris. I wish he had been farther before he made mischief between us.’

‘No one has the power to make mischief between us,’ said Liz, smiling through her tears. ‘I am quite happy again now, and am only sorry my foolish jealousy should have betrayed me into making such a scene. And, to prove it, let us talk of Quita, Henri. I was wanting to see you, just to ask after her.’

‘Can’t we find some pleasanter topic of conversation, Liz? Besides, you know more of Miss Courtney than I could tell you.’

‘No! That is just where it is. I have hardly seen anything of her since the fever broke out. Father is not quite certain whether it is contagious or not, and whilst there is a doubt, he thinks it better I should keep away from the White House. But old Jessica says that Quita is not looking at all well, and she is afraid there is something serious the matter with her.’

De Courcelles fired up again directly.

‘Curse the old fool! What business is it of hers how she looks! It’s this infernal tittle-tattle from house to house, that makes all the mischief in the world.’

‘Oh, Henri! You forget Jessica was Quita’s nurse. Why, she loves her like her own child, and she says she has been very depressed lately, and is often crying. What should make her cry, Henri? Has she any trouble?’

‘Don’t ask me! How should I know?’ he answered roughly. ‘Miss Courtney is not likely to confide her troubles to her father’s overseer. But I see no difference in her.’

‘Perhaps it is only Jessica’s anxiety,’ said Liz thoughtfully. ‘But I am always dreaming of this fever, and Maraquita is too delicate to battle against it. I wish Mr Courtney would send her out of the island until it is dispersed.’

‘You don’t think of going yourself, though.’

‘I! Oh, dear no! I should be a coward to run away from these poor people when I can be of use to them. But Maraquita is different. She has nothing to do but to think of the trouble and brood over it, and she is easily alarmed. She would be much better away.’

‘I suppose if her parents thought so they would send her. They have sufficient money to do anything. But we have discussed the subject enough, Liz, and I am weary of it. Where is your father?’

‘Here he is,’ replied Liz, in a brisk and cheerful tone, as Dr Fellows entered the bungalow.

Whatever her own doubts and imaginings, she was always cheerful before her father, for he seemed to carry a weight through life that would break him down, unless sustained by his daughter’s strength of mind.

Dr Fellows was a man of about fifty years of age, but he looked older. His figure was bent and attenuated, his hair nearly white, his features lined with care and yellow from ill-health. No one to see them together could have believed him to be the father of the healthy and finely-formed young woman who advanced to meet him. The frank, ingenuous expression on his daughter’s face contrasted pleasantly with his reserved and somewhat morose physiognomy. He hardly smiled as she took his broad-brimmed Panama hat and stick from him, and kissed him on the forehead. The doctor was dressed in a complete suit of white nankeen, and his face was scarcely less white than his clothes.

‘You look very tired, father!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘Have you been far from the plantation to-night, and are there any fresh cases?’

‘I walked to the other side of Shanty Hill, to see a child of Mathy Jones, but I was too late. The fever had set in with convulsions, and it was dead before I arrived. And poor old Ben is gone too, Liz; Mr Latham’s faithful old servant. I would have given all I am worth to save him, but I failed to do so. I think my right hand must have lost its cunning,’ said the Doctor, in a tone of deep depression.

‘No, no! father! It is nothing of the sort. You are overtired with your constant work, or you would not think of such nonsense. Let me mix you a white wine sherbet, you seem quite exhausted. And here is Henri, so talk of something else, and divert your thoughts.’

‘How are you, Monsieur de Courcelles? We have not seen much of you lately,’ said Dr Fellows languidly.

The indifference with which he spoke, showed that he did not care much for his intended son-in-law. Indeed, excepting that he believed his daughter to possess a much clearer and more practical head than his own, he never would have sanctioned the engagement. But Lizzie loved him, so the Doctor argued—and believed in him, and therefore it must be all right. Lizzie was too sensible to make a mistake about it. The Doctor forgot, or was ignorant of the fact, that the cleverest women often make the greatest fools of themselves where their hearts are concerned, and their vivid imaginations make them believe those they love to be all they could wish them. The handsome, nonchalant young Frenchman did not appear much better pleased to meet Dr Fellows than he did to see him, but he considered it worth his while to refute his assertion.

‘That has been your fault more than mine,’ he replied airily. ‘I was just telling your daughter that I have made several attempts to find you at home, without success. My time is not my own, you know, any more than yours.’

‘Oh, if Liz is satisfied, I am sure I am!’ retorted Dr Fellows.

‘It is all right, father, Henri and I perfectly understand each other,’ interposed his daughter cheerfully. ‘But had you not better go and lie down, father? I don’t like that heavy look in your eyes; and you may be called up again at any hour of the night. Do take some rest whilst you can.’

‘You are right, my dear,’ replied the Doctor, staggering to his feet; ‘I really want rest. But you will go to bed, too, Lizzie. You will not sit up too late with Monsieur de Courcelles?’

‘There is no fear of that, for I am going at once,’ said the young man, as he rose to his feet. ‘Good-night, Doctor; good-night, Liz. I shall look in upon you again to-morrow.’

He nodded to each of them as he passed out into the night air, and Liz looked after his handsome lithe figure, as it disappeared behind the clump of mango trees, with a sigh of love and regret. But there was nothing but affectionate solicitude patent in her manner as she proffered her arm to support her father to his room.

‘Father, you are trembling like a leaf. I think I shall give you a little quinine. By the way, have you heard any news from the White House to-day? Are they all well?’

‘I trust so. I have heard nothing to the contrary; and I saw Mr Courtney as usual this morning. What makes you ask me, my dear?’

‘Because Jessica said that Maraquita looked ill.’

‘It can be nothing serious, or I should have heard of it. Probably the effects of this intense heat, and the unhealthy state of the atmosphere. But they are well provided with disinfectants at the White House, and Mr Courtney will not permit his wife or daughter to enter the plantation. They always drive on the other side of the island.’

‘That accounts for my not having seen either of them for so long,’ said Lizzie, as she left her father to lie down, dressed as he was, and try to gain a much-needed repose.

CHAPTER III.

AS she re-entered the sitting-room, she passed at once to the entrance which led on to the verandah. All the windows were wide open, and the shaded lamp upon the table, round which myriads of insects were hovering, conveyed no heat to the apartment, yet it seemed to stifle her for want of air. Her head and her heart seemed both on fire, and she could recall nothing of the events of the evening, except that Henri had denied he was untrue to her, and yet had left without giving her any proof of his fidelity. The world seemed to be crumbling beneath her feet as she stepped out of the open door, and lifted up her face to the star-spangled sky. How calm and peaceful and steadfast it appeared! What a contrast to her own turbulent spirit, and how she longed to be at peace also—anywhere, anyhow, only at peace!

Liz was passing through the cruellest phase of a disappointment in love—when merciless doubt obtrudes its fang into the heart, and poisons the whole being. How we despise and hate ourselves for doubting, and yet how painfully we go into the minutiæ of our loathsome suspicion, and dissect every reason that forbids our casting it from us!

Liz felt as if she dared not think about it. As she recalled De Courcelles’ words and manner that evening, she saw that he had not said or done a single thing calculated to set her mind at rest. Except the solemn oath which he had sworn, and somehow, though she loved him, Liz derived no comfort from remembering that oath, and even wished he had not taken it. That he might not have deserted her for the sake of Maraquita Courtney was true—as he had attested it, she was bound to believe it was true—but he was changed to herself. All the oaths sworn under heaven could not disabuse her mind of that idea; and if he were false, what did it signify to her who occupied the place which she had lost? The brave woman who could set a broken limb, or lance an abscess without wincing, shook like an aspen leaf at the prospect of losing her handsome lover. Her love was so knit to him, that she believed she could never disentangle it, but would have to live on, with her live warm heart beating against his dead cold one, until death came to release them. That is the worst of finding out the unworthiness of those whom we have believed in,—we cannot all at once tear our hearts away, and we despise ourselves for being so weak as to let them bleed to death by inches, instead of freeing them with one wrench.

Liz was ready to despise herself as she walked a little way from the bungalow. It stood in the centre of the coffee plantation, but a considerable space round it had been set with ornamental shrubs and trees. The glossy-leaved creamy-white magnolias, with their golden centres, shed their powerful perfume on the night air, and a clump of orange trees in full blossom mingled their scent with the magnolia. The night-blowing cistus and the trumpet flowers wound themselves up the supports of the verandah; the insects, with many a birr-r and whiz-z, disported themselves in the lemon grass, and from the covert of the plantation came low-toned murmurs from the sleepy love-birds, or the shrill cry of a green parrot startled from its bower of bud and blossom. Liz lifted her heated face to heaven, as though she would draw inspiration from its majestic calm.

Far off, from the cluster of negroes’ huts, which bordered the property, she could distinguish the crooning wails of the mourners, preparing their dead for burial at sunrise, and her heart bled for the poor black mothers who had been compelled to part with the babies at their breast. Death and sorrow seemed to surround her, and her spirits sunk down to their lowest ebb. The stillness was intense. It was a night when one seemed lifted up from this lower earth, and capable of holding communion with the Unseen.

But absorbed as Liz Fellows was in her own trouble, she was startled after a while by the sound of a low faint moan that came from the surrounding thicket. Her first idea was that it proceeded from Rosa mourning over her dead child—poor wild Rosa, who was so heedless as to be almost half-witted, and who had fallen a ready prey to some loafing young sailor who had spent a few days near the plantation. Liz had felt deeply interested in this girl. She had been shocked and horrified to find she had so little sense of decency or respect for her womanhood as to succumb to the first temptation offered her, but she had not slighted nor reproached the girl in consequence. Such things were common enough amongst the coolies. It was not Liz’s vocation to preach but to console. She had indeed, whilst watching over Rosa and her baby, tried to convince her of the wrong she had committed, both to her child and herself, but the yellow girl had paid no attention to her words, until the fever had carried off little Carlo. Then they had come back upon her mind with double force, and she had resented them by insulting her benefactress. But Liz bore no malice. She was only anxious to console, as far as possible, the poor bereaved young mother, and when she heard the low moans, which she fancied came from Rosa, she plunged into the thicket whence they proceeded. She had gone but a few steps when she came upon a female figure leaning against the trunk of a mango tree, as though she had no strength to proceed further. But the first glance, even though given in the dusky light, showed Lizzie that this was no coolie girl—yellow, or otherwise. The slight form was enveloped in a black mantle, which covered it from head to foot, but the hood had fallen back, and in the white face turned up to the moonbeams, Liz recognised, to her dismay, the features of Maraquita Courtney.

‘Quita!’ she exclaimed, rushing forward, ‘my dear Quita, are you ill?’

But Maraquita shrunk from the kindly hand which was laid upon her, as if it had been the sting of a serpent.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she murmured; ‘I could not bear it. I don’t want you. I want—your—your—father.’

‘My father is at home, dear. He will see you at once if you wish it. But why didn’t you send for him, Maraquita, if you felt ill? Why did you take the trouble to come down here to see him?’

But all the answer Maraquita made was to utter another heartrending moan as she swayed backwards and forwards with pain.

‘Oh, my dearest girl, you are really ill! You must come to the bungalow at once, and let father prescribe for you. Lean on me, Maraquita, and let me support you. Only a few steps farther, and we shall be there.’

The girl she spoke to appeared to have no alternative but to accede to her request. She leaned heavily on Liz’s arm, and with many a moan dragged her feet across the threshold of the Doctor’s house, where she sank exhausted into a chair.

She was a beautiful creature, who had just attained her eighteenth year. Her fair-haired English father had imparted to her a skin of dazzling whiteness, with a complexion like the heart of a maiden-blush rose, and her Spanish mother had given her eyes dark as the sloe and soft as velvet, with languishing lids and curled lashes, and hair of rippling raven. Maraquita’s form was slight and supple; her hands and feet small and childlike. She was in all points a great contrast to the Doctor’s daughter, who regarded her as the loveliest girl she had ever seen. As little children they had been the most intimate companions and playmates, Lizzie acting as an elder sister and protector to the little Maraquita, who toddled all over the plantation under her care. When older, too, they had studied together, or rather Liz had tried to impart the knowledge she derived from her father to Quita; but the latter had never advanced beyond the rudiments of learning. Her indolent, half-educated mother, who lounged about in a dressing-gown all day, and had no thoughts beyond her Sunday attire and her evening drive, considered schooling quite unnecessary for her beautiful little daughter, and much preferred to see her running about the White House in a lace frock and blue ribbons, with her rosy, dimpled feet bare, to letting her be cooped up in the bungalow studying grammar and geography.

So Maraquita had grown up to womanhood about as ignorant as it is possible for a young lady to be—about also as vain and foolish as it is possible for a woman to be. Yet Liz loved her—spite of it all—for the sake of those early memories. She had never relinquished her intimacy with Quita, and when they met, they were as familiar as of old, but they did not meet so often as before. The last two years, during which Miss Courtney had been introduced to the society of San Diego, had much separated them. The pleasant evenings which they had been used to spend together, wandering through the coffee plantation, were gone for ever. Quita was always engaged now, either to a dinner, or a ball, or to go to the theatre with her friends, and Liz had ceased to expect to see her. And since the fever had broken out amongst the coolies, they had never met, and she was content, for Quita’s sake, that it should be so. And now to find her wandering about the plantation at night and evidently so ill, filled Liz’s breast with alarm. There was but one solution of the riddle. Quita had contracted the fever in its worst form, and had come to them in her delirium. Liz had no time to do more than think the thought before she deposited Quita in a chair and rushed to wake her father, and summon him to her relief.

‘Father,’ she exclaimed hurriedly, as she roused Dr Fellows from his sleep, ‘I am so sorry to disturb you, but it is absolutely necessary. Quita is ill—very ill, and you must come to her at once. I met her wandering about the grounds, evidently in great pain, and she says she wants to see you. I am afraid she is delirious. Oh, father, do come to her at once!’

‘Maraquita here?’ said the Doctor, as he rose from his bed and prepared to quit the room. ‘And without her parents? Impossible.’

‘Oh, father, I am sure she is not in her right senses, though she is too ill to speak much. What will Mr and Mrs Courtney say?’

‘We must send word to them at once,’ exclaimed the Doctor, as he preceded his daughter to the sitting-room. But as soon as he had felt Maraquita’s pulse, and listened to her moans, the expression of his face changed from concern to the deepest dismay. ‘This is much worse than I anticipated,’ he whispered to his daughter. ‘We must carry her into my room at once.’

‘Dr Fellows,’ cried the sick girl, as she clutched at his coat sleeve, ‘save me, for God’s sake—save me! I came to you because you are so good and kind, but—but—I think I am dying.’

‘No! No! my dear! it will be all right by-and-by,’ replied the Doctor soothingly; ‘but you must be good now, and do as I tell you, and you will soon be well. Liz and I are going to move you into my bedroom.’

‘And shall I be alone with you?’ she asked, with scared eyes.

‘Yes!—quite alone! Now, Lizzie, take her feet, and I will carry her head and shoulders, and we’ll have her on the bed in no time.’

‘Is it the fever?’ inquired Liz, with a white face, for she knew that Maraquita’s constitution was very fragile.

‘Yes! yes! Now, go and leave us, and tell this to no one.’

‘But, father, let me undress her first.’

‘I wish you to go at once and leave us alone,’ repeated the Doctor firmly.

Liz obeyed her father’s orders at once. She was too well used to work under him as an assistant, to dream of disputing them. But she was very much astonished to hear him send her away from her adopted sister’s side.

‘Shall I run up to the White House and tell Mr and Mrs Courtney that Quita is with us, father? They will be terribly alarmed if they find out she has gone.’

‘Go nowhere, and speak to no one,’ replied Dr Fellows authoritatively. ‘They are my orders, remember. Remain in the sitting-room, and let no one enter the house. When I require you, I will call you.’

Liz walked out of the bed-chamber at once, and left her father with his patient. She could not understand him this evening, and his action alarmed as much as it puzzled her. Maraquita must indeed be ill, to make him look and speak with such complete dismay; he who was generally so cool and self-collected, and who appeared to look on death, whenever it occurred, as a kindly note of release from a very troublesome world. She drew out her work (for whatever her mental perplexities, Liz was never idle) and sat down to sew and practise patience. She could not help hearing the low moans that forced their way through the wooden partitions of the building, and her father’s soothing tones, but she could gain no knowledge of what was passing there. At last, after the space of an hour, although it had seemed much longer, Dr Fellows entered the room in which she sat, and went to his cupboard in search of some medicine. His daughter looked up anxiously as he appeared.

‘Only tell me if she is better,’ she urged.

‘She is not better yet,’ replied her father; ‘but there is every hope she soon will be.’

‘Thank Heaven for it! But I cannot help thinking of her poor parents. Perhaps they have discovered her absence, and are searching the island for her. It is cruel to keep them in suspense.’

‘I think if you look at the matter from a sensible point of view, Liz, you will see that when they miss Maraquita, my bungalow is the first place they will visit. But I do not think they will miss her, at least not yet. Meanwhile I want to speak to you. Can you give me your serious attention?’

‘Unless Quita should want you,’ replied Liz, looking anxiously towards the bed-chamber.

‘She will not do so for some little time, for I have given her a soothing draught, and she is asleep; and I can hear the least sound from where I stand. But it is necessary you should listen to me.’

‘I am all attention, father.’

‘You have spent the best part of your life in San Diego, Liz; has it ever struck you as strange that I, an Englishman, and a certificated doctor, should have chosen to make my home in this island, and live, as it were, on the bounty of Edward Courtney?’

‘I don’t know that I have thought it strange, father, for you might have had a thousand reasons for settling in this beautiful island, but I have felt for a long time past that you have some secret trouble, to make you shun the curiosity or the publicity of the world.’

‘You are right, Liz, and you are old enough now to share that sorrow—or rather that shame.’

‘Oh! no, no, father, don’t say that!’ cried Lizzie, as her work dropped into her lap. ‘Whatever it may be, it is not shame.’

‘My dear, I cannot conceal the fact any longer, for without it you will never understand what I am about to tell you. The very name we bear, Liz, is not our own. I was compelled to adopt the name of Fellows, in order to escape—’

‘What? In Heaven’s name, WHAT?’ she exclaimed, clutching at his sleeve.

‘Transportation,’ replied Dr Fellows, in a low, strained voice.

She was about to scream out, to protest her horror of the disgrace attached to them,—her indignation that he should have brought it on their heads,—but a glance at her father’s pale, pained face restrained her. In a moment she realised the awful effort it must have been for him to confess his guilt before his daughter, and womanly compassion took the place of her first resentment.

‘My poor father,’ she said, in a low voice, as she took his hands in hers. ‘My poor father! Surely it was not deserved. There must have been some mistake.’

‘No, Lizzie, there was no mistake. Since I have told you so far, you must hear all! I am a forger.’

She hid her face in her hands then, for she did not care to look at him, lest he should read the contempt she felt her features must express.

‘This is the secret of the friendship between me and Mr Courtney. I owe him more than my life. We were boys at school together, Liz, and chums at college, and always the best of friends. But he was rich—the only son of a wealthy planter—and I was very poor, and had nothing to depend on but my wits. He led me into extravagances which I was too ready to follow, but whilst he had the means to defray his debts, I had no power to do the same by mine. At last, in an evil moment, to prevent a bill coming upon my old father which would have broken up his humble home and sent him to the workhouse, I forged my friend Edward Courtney’s name, as a temporary relief. Before I could make up the money, the paper fell into his hands, and he might have ruined me; instead of which, Liz, he forgave me freely; but the rumour had got abroad, and I was a ruined man. I was married, and set up in a small practice. I lost it all, and it preyed so on your poor mother’s mind that when you were born, she faded out of life, and left me alone with my disgrace. I took you away from the place, and tried to establish a practice in various parts of England without success—the whispered scandal followed me everywhere—until Mr Courtney came into his father’s property, and settled out in San Diego; then he wrote and begged me for the sake of our old friendship, to let the past be forgotten between us, and to come out here and hold an appointment on Beauregard as medical overseer to the plantation. As soon as I could bring down my pride to accept a benefit from the man I had so deeply wronged, I brought you over here, and we have been dependants on Edward Courtney’s bounty ever since. Lizzie, what do we owe the man who has placed us under such an obligation?’

‘Our lives, should he require them,’ she answered, in a low voice.

She was deeply humiliated by what she had heard. She had never dreamt that the evident trouble under which her father laboured could be the brand of shame. Her proud independent spirit writhed under the knowledge that she had been reared on the bread of charity,—that the very name she passed by was not her own, and that the best spirit which she and her father could claim from their benefactor, was one of tolerance only. She could have cried out to Dr Fellows then and there, to take her away from the surroundings which had become hateful to her, because they must evermore be associated with the bitter story of his guilt. But she only hung her head, and spoke in a whisper. Her father had been sufficiently degraded by having to tell her such a story, and he had been very good to her, and it was not his daughter’s part to add to his suffering. But she threw the full depth of its meaning into the answer she returned him, and he caught at it eagerly.

‘You are right, Liz. Our lives, and all we have, should be at his disposal, in return for all his goodness to us. You cannot feel that more deeply than I do. And now I want to hear you take a solemn oath to that effect.’

‘An oath!’ cried Lizzie, startled at the idea.

‘Yes! an oath before Almighty God. Nothing short of it will satisfy me, and set my mind at rest.’

‘Ah, father!’ she exclaimed, remembering another oath which she had heard that evening, ‘will not my promise do as well? You know that I would not dare to break it. It would be as sacred to me as any oath.’

‘No, Lizzie—no! I am not asking this for myself, but for another—for my friend Edward Courtney, to whom we owe so much, and nothing short of an oath will do. Say, “I swear before Almighty God, and by all my hopes of salvation, that I will never repeat what I may see, or hear, or suspect this night.”’

‘Oh, father! you frighten me! What terrible thing is going to happen?’

‘Are you a child, to be scared by a few words? If you will not swear it, Lizzie, I will send you out of the bungalow this minute, to the house of our next neighbours, and you shall not return until I fetch you. But I want your assistance, and if you will do as I require you, you can stay and help me.’

‘For Quita’s sake then, father, “I swear before Almighty God, and by all my hopes of salvation, that I will never repeat what I may see, or hear, or suspect this night.”’

‘That is my brave, good daughter,’ said the Doctor, as he laid his hand for a moment on her head, before he gathered up the medicines he had selected, and left the room.

CHAPTER IV.

LIZ stood where he had left her, awestruck and bewildered. All her private trouble of that evening—the sickening doubts she had conceived of her lover’s fidelity, and her fears for Maraquita’s safety—faded before the humbling truths she had just heard. This, then, was the solution of the riddle which had so long puzzled her—the meaning of her father’s secret anxiety and depression. He was a criminal, whose crime was known to the law, and who had only escaped justice by yielding up his birthright and hiding on the plantation of his benefactor, Mr Courtney. It was a very bitter truth to swallow.

Liz wondered how much Mrs Courtney and Maraquita knew of their disgrace, and what revulsion of feeling it might not cause in the breast of Henri de Courcelles. The thought of her lover caused a sharp pang to Lizzie. What terrible thing was about to happen in the future for her with regard to him? Her father’s revelation had raised a new barrier between them—one which honour compelled her to feel could never be surmounted until she was permitted to reveal it; and what consequences might not follow such a confession. As Liz pondered on the difficulties in her path, she shivered to hear the keening of the night breeze as it sighed through the branches of the coffee trees, and the far-off wailing which could occasionally be heard from the negroes’ huts. They seemed like a requiem over the ashes of her love and blighted hope.

The tears were standing on her cheeks when she was roused from her reverie by the opening of the door, and her father stood before her again.

‘Do you want me?’ she said quickly.

Dr Fellows answered her in a tone of portentous gravity,—

‘Yes, Liz, though not in the way you imagine. Set your mind at rest concerning Maraquita. There is nothing to be alarmed at about her. But you must execute a commission at once for me. You must carry this basket to Mammy Lila on the Shanty Hill.’

Liz glanced at the large basket which her father carried in his hand, with astonishment.

‘I am to go to the Shanty Hill to-night, father? Do you know that it is five miles away, and it is just two o’clock? Cannot it wait until the morning?’

‘If it could have waited till the morning I should not have told you to take it now,’ replied the Doctor sternly. ‘Have you already forgotten your own acknowledgment that we owe (if necessary) our very lives to Edward Courtney.’

‘But what has this to do with Mr Courtney?’

‘Ask no questions, but do as I bid you. If any one else could do the work as well as yourself, I should not trouble you, Liz. But I can trust no one but you. Carry the basket to Mammy Lila’s hut, and leave it there. Tell her it comes from me, and my message to her is “Silence and secrecy.”’

‘I will go,’ said Lizzie shortly, as she took the basket from her father’s hand.

‘Go by the path that skirts the outer plantation, and cross the ravine by Dorrian’s glen; it is the shorter way,’ continued Dr Fellows; and then suddenly twisting his daughter round so as to look into her face, he asked her,—‘Have you any fear? It is dangerous traversing these roads by night, and alone. There may be snakes across the path, or panthers lurking in the thickets. Are you sure you are not afraid?’

The contemptuous curl of Liz’s lip showed him the futility of the question.