A CROWN OF SHAME.

VOL. II.

A CROWN OF SHAME.

A NOVEL.

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

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

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.

Now ready, in One Vol., the Seventh Edition of

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.’

F. V. WHITE & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand,
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A CROWN OF SHAME.

CHAPTER I.

HE left Liz weeping over the dead body of her father. How paltry all other troubles seemed to be, as she did so. She had no power, at that moment, to realise any fact but one,—that he had left her, and without a warning. He, who had been her sole protector and companion, beside whom she had walked every moment of her life, sharing his knowledge, and his duties, and his cares, had gone forth into the dreamland without her, and for the future she must struggle through life as best she might, alone. Liz was not ignorant of the cause of her father’s death, but she had been quite unprepared for it. She had known for some time past that he had a weak heart, but men lived with such, sometimes to their three score years and ten. He had passed a tranquil and unexciting life. The passions which had raged stormily perhaps in his youth had forsaken him in his latter days, and he had appeared likely to live on to a good old age. But the events of the last week had greatly upset him. Liz had no doubt, as she looked at his pale, calm features, that his sudden death lay, in a great measure, at Maraquita’s door, and the fact did not make her feel more tenderly towards her adopted sister. But the infant was wailing in her arms, and she felt that something must be done at once. This was no time for weeping, or inaction. She turned on her heel, with set features, and teeth closely clenched together, and passed into the outer room to summon her negress attendant Chloe to her aid. Chloe was conspicuous only by her absence, but on the threshold of the outer door she found the yellow girl, Rosa, slowly rocking herself to and fro.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Lizzie sternly. ‘Have you not brought me into enough trouble already?’

The girl turned round and caught the folds of her dress, and buried her face in them, crying. The coloured people are very emotional, and a sudden remorse had stabbed the depths of poor Rosa’s heart.

‘Oh, Miss Lizzie,’ she sobbed, ‘I’se so sorry the poor Doctor dead! Massa Courcelles tell me so as he went out. The dear good Doctor, who was so berry kind to me in my sickness, and so good to my little Carlo, and now he gone too, and me nebber see him any more, and my heart is broke, Miss Liz, my heart is broke!’

This tribute to her dead father’s virtues affected Liz more than anything else could have done.

‘If you are so sorry for his loss, Rosa,’ she answered gently, ‘what do you suppose I must feel. I seem to have lost everything to-day—everything,’ she added, in a vague and weary tone.

‘Oh, Missy Liz, I’se so sorry!’ repeated Rosa. ‘But what can I do to help you, and to take some of dis trouble off you? Let me do something, Missy Liz, to show I’se real sorry.’

‘You can go up to the White House, Rosa, and tell Mr Courtney of—of—this, and say I should like to see him as soon as he can come to me. I can’t find Chloe anywhere.’

‘Ah! dat Chloe no good. She too stupid!’ cried Rosa, with all a negress’s jealousy. ‘And may I come back, too, Missy Liz, with Massa Courtney, and help you nurse the baby, same as you helped me with little Carlo?’

The allusion to the child brought the trouble it had caused her too vividly to Lizzie’s mind. She dropped into a chair, and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Rosa! Rosa! you have spoiled my life for me. How could you be so cruel?’

The yellow girl crawled on her knees to the side of the Doctor’s daughter.

‘Missy Liz, what I done so bad? Isn’t dat baby your own baby, then?’

‘Of course it isn’t! How could you think such a thing of me? It is a little nurse-child which was left in charge of my dear father, and I was minding it for him. But you made Monsieur de Courcelles believe that it belongs to me, and you have parted us for ever. He was to have been my husband, Rosa, but he never will be so now; never—never!’

Rosa’s eyes opened with surprise.

‘Missy Liz, you must tell him I’se a liar. I know noting of de baby, only I see it on your bed, and I’se so sorry I speak to Massa Courcelles about it. It was de debbil spoke, Missy Liz, and not me. Something seem to come in my head and say dat chile like my little Carlo, and you no better den me. But I see now I’se all wrong, and you too good to do such a drefful thing. You tell Massa Courcelles I’se a liar, and it’ll be all right again, Missy Liz.’

‘No, Rosa, it will never be right again in the way you mean. I did tell Monsieur de Courcelles what you say, but he refused to believe me. No one will believe me now, I am afraid,’ said Liz mournfully, ‘and I must bear the brunt of my own rash promise.’

‘Oh! Missy Liz, must you keep dat baby dat isn’t yours, and take de trouble of it all your life?’

‘I think so, Rosa. I have nowhere to send it; and you would not have me turn it out on the cold world alone? No, my dear dead father left it to me as a sacred charge,’ cried Lizzie, weeping, ‘and I will guard it, whatever it may cost me. It will be something to do for his sake.’

‘Oh, Miss Lizzie!’ exclaimed Rosa, awed by a display of heroism she could not understand, ‘you berry good woman! I nebber know till dis day how good a woman you are. Let me stay with you, Miss Lizzie. Send dat Chloe back to huts, and let me be your servant, ’stead of her. Chloe don’t know nuffin of children. She not had a little boy, like me. Let me nurse dat baby for you, and I will be faithful, trust me, Missy Liz, and nebber let de debbil speak through my mouth again.’

‘I believe you, Rosa,’ replied Lizzie. ‘I believe you are sorry for the mischief you have done, and that you would undo it if you could. You were a good mother to little Carlo, and you would be a kind nurse to this poor little one. If it can be managed, it shall be arranged so, but we can do nothing without the leave of Mr Courtney. Go now and tell him of the grief I am in, and we will talk of these things another day.’

‘But I will come back and hold de baby for you, Missy Liz!’ exclaimed the yellow girl, as she set off towards the White House.

Liz walked back into the death chamber, and mechanically performed the necessary offices to prepare her father’s body for the grave. She did not weep again as she did so. The blow of her two great losses, coming so quickly one upon the other, had stunned her, and dried up the sources of her tears. She would have time to think and weep, she thought, by-and-by. When Mr Courtney arrived post-haste in answer to her summons, his grief appeared to be scarcely less than her own. He had been sincerely and deeply attached to this erring friend of his youthful days, and had never anticipated losing him so soon. He shed tears freely over the silent corpse, and kept on assuring Lizzie that her future should be one of his first cares.

‘Don’t let that trouble you, my dear,’ he reiterated. ‘I looked upon your dear father as my brother, and you shall never miss his protection whilst I can extend it to you. From this moment, Lizzie, I shall regard you as my daughter, and as soon as the sad ceremonies which we must go through, are concluded, I shall carry you off to the White House, and consider you second only in my affection to Maraquita.’

‘Dear Mr Courtney, you are too good to me,’ gasped Lizzie, ‘but—but—please don’t speak of my future to me to-day.’

‘No, no, of course not. It was thoughtless of me,’ said the planter; ‘but I did it with the view to set your mind at ease. To-day we must give up entirely to thoughts of my dear and valued friend.’

He imagined that the girl’s mind was too distracted to dwell on anything but her great loss; but Lizzie had remembered that before the morrow, the scandal that was being spread abroad concerning her would reach his ears, and render her unfit in his eyes to be the companion of his daughter.

When he had told her what arrangements he had made for the funeral, which (according to the custom in hot climates) was to take place that evening, Mr Courtney, with a farewell grasp of his dead friend’s hand, turned to leave the bungalow, when his eye fell upon the yellow girl, Rosa, squatting on the floor with the baby in her arms.

‘What infant is that?’ he demanded indifferently, for it was so wrapped up in flannel that he could not see its face.

Liz had anticipated the question, and dreaded it; but she felt evasion would be useless, and had not attempted to send the child out of his sight.

‘It is a little girl which was confided to my dear father’s care,’ she answered, in a low voice. ‘And he was going to consult Dr Martin at the Fort about a nurse to take the charge of it, when he was called away.’

Mr Courtney’s eyes opened somewhat at her explanation.

‘Is it a white child then?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is a white child,’ replied Lizzie, with a deep sigh, as she stood trembling at what might follow. But Mr Courtney said no more on the subject. Perhaps his mind was too full of his lost friend to think of minor things, anyway he left the bungalow without another word or look, and Lizzie breathed more freely when he had gone. She spent the remainder of the day beside the remains of the father whom she had loved so well, and when the sun had sunk in the west, and the cool sea breezes commenced to blow over San Diego, she followed his coffin to the little European burial ground, which was situated on the top of a hill, and in full view of the glorious ocean. She saw that there were many friends, both white and coloured, gathered round the open grave but she was in no fit condition to recognise who they were. Only, as the last words of the solemn service were concluded, and she heard the sods of earth rattle on the coffin lid, and felt as if she must throw herself in with them, and be buried with all she loved best in this world, she found some one supporting her failing steps on either side, and looking up saw she was standing between Mr Courtney and Captain Norris.

‘Come, my dear child,’ whispered the former. ‘It is all over now. Let us see you safely to your home.’

They led her between them back to the empty bungalow, and the three friends sat down together in the sitting-room, whilst Rosa squatted in the verandah with Maraquita’s baby in her arms. Liz, making an effort to battle with her emotion, busied herself with setting some light refreshment before her guests. Mr Courtney drank a glass of iced sherbet in silence, and then cleared his throat as though to force himself to speak.

‘Lizzie, my dear, I have a good deal to say to you, and I wish to say it now. I might leave it till to-morrow, but I think it will do you good to fix your mind at once upon business, and to settle what you are to do in the future.’

Lizzie turned a little paler than she had been. She had understood her future to be settled that morning. But she guessed why it required further explanation now.

‘Captain Norris, than whom I think your dear father had no warmer friend, has been talking to me on the subject this afternoon, and has consented to become the guardian and trustee of your interests.’

‘I am of age,’ interrupted Lizzie, with open eyes; ‘I require no guardian.’

‘Stop, my dear, and let me finish what I have to say. You may not require a personal guardian, but your monetary interests may need looking after. I am not likely to forget you at my death, Lizzie.’

‘Indeed, Mr Courtney, you are too good to me,’ said Liz,—‘as you were to my poor father,’ she added, in a lower voice.

‘Your father was my dearest friend: I can never forget that,’ replied the planter; ‘and I am only following the dictates of my affection for him in making a suitable provision for his daughter. I have been thinking the matter over deeply, Lizzie, and I have decided that I cannot spare you from amongst my coolies. Why should you not carry on the work from which your father has been so suddenly called away? I know you are competent to do so, from what he himself has told me, and in any difficult cases you can always call in the assistance of the Doctor from the Fort. What I propose is that you should continue to live in this bungalow (the furniture and effects of which I shall make over to you as your own property), and to work amongst the coloured people; and I will gladly pay you the same remuneration as heretofore. Don’t you think it will be the best plan, Lizzie, and that you will be happier if you bravely try to forget your grief, in carrying on a life of activity and usefulness?’

‘I am sure it will be best,’ she answered, in a low tone.

Her pride, which had made her divine at once the cause of her benefactor’s change of mind, would have also prompted her to refuse his offers of assistance, but she was helpless in the matter. She had no friends to go to, no resources to fall back upon. What could she have done, left alone in San Diego, but live on charity, which she would rather have died than accept? Mr Courtney’s proposal was at least not a humiliating one. He offered her money in return for her labour, and she was resolved to earn it, and thanked Heaven she was capable of doing so. That he should not even have alluded to his promise of the morning wounded but did not surprise her. He had heard the wretched slander, which was doubtless already going the round of the plantation, concerning her. Henri de Courcelles had, perhaps, repeated it, and Mr Courtney already regretted that he had held out hopes he could not fulfil. Well, he should not read her disappointment in her eyes. She would put a brave face on the matter, and battle (as best she could) for herself; for the oath she had taken to her dead father was doubly sacred, now that all hope of release from it was over.

‘We will do all in our power to make your life comfortable,’ continued Mr Courtney; ‘and you may always depend on me, Lizzie, as your friend.’

He did not include his wife’s and daughter’s friendship with his own, and Lizzie noticed the omission, and shrunk under it.

‘Mr Courtney,’ she said, in a firm voice, though her eyes were full of tears, ‘I thank you for your offers of assistance, and I accept them gratefully. I did not know till a few days back, the whole extent to which my poor father was indebted to you, but I shall never forget it, and if I can ever repay it in the slightest degree, I will.’

‘Hush, my dear! It was nothing. Don’t speak of it now.’

‘It was his life, Mr Courtney, and I should not be his daughter were I unmindful of it. I should have liked to relieve you of the burden, now he is gone, but I don’t know what I could do, without friends, and in a foreign country. So I will remain on (as you are good enough to propose), and work among your plantation hands, and do all I possibly can to return your kindness to us both.’

‘Lizzie, my dear, I don’t wish you to think of it as if it were a favour. The obligation is quite as much on my side. And you mustn’t speak of yourself as friendless, either, my dear. You have friends on all sides, I am sure of that. You know what I feel towards you; and here is Captain Norris, grieving only second to myself for your loss; and every one in San Diego loves and respects you. You may take my word for that, Lizzie.’

Mr Courtney had risen, as if to take his departure, whilst he spoke, and now stood in the doorway, with his straw hat in his hand, and beckoned her towards him.

‘By the way,’ he added, in a lower tone, ‘what do you intend to do about that child, Lizzie?’ jerking his head towards Rosa and the baby.

‘What should I do about it?’ she returned. ‘I know no place to send it to. It was in the charge of Mammy Lila, but she died of the fever. I suppose I must keep it here.’

‘Where are its parents?’ demanded the planter inquisitively.

‘It has none, Mr Courtney, or none who will own it.’

‘Dear me! That is very strange, and very awkward. Who confided it to your father’s care?’

‘I am not at liberty to tell you, sir.’

‘Do you know then?’

She paused for a moment, and then answered, in a husky tone,—

‘Yes.’

‘And you will not tell me, Lizzie?’

‘I am bound under a solemn oath, Mr Courtney, not to reveal anything about that child, and I must beg of you not to question me.’

‘It looks bad for you, my dear, and may be the cause of a great deal of future unhappiness. There are not so many Europeans on the island that such an event can occur without comment; and if you persist in holding your tongue on the subject, people will talk about it, and to your disadvantage.’

‘Then they must talk, Mr Courtney,’ replied Lizzie boldly, though she had turned very pale. ‘I cannot break my promise to my father, for any consideration, not even to save my reputation.’

‘Lizzie,’ whispered the planter presently, ‘promise me at least to send the child away. Let me send it away for you. You don’t know what people are saying about you. Even De Courcelles has heard the rumour, and came to me for an explanation of it. I will ask you no questions, my dear, but let me help you in the matter by sending the infant to one of the sister islands. I cannot bear to think that any one should dare to say a word against you, for your father’s sake.’

‘You are very kind, Mr Courtney, but I have made up my mind on this subject, and the child will remain with me. Sending her away now to the care of a hireling, will not remove the stain her presence here has cast upon my character; and I have reasons for wishing to bring her up myself. If you object to it, I will relieve you of the burden of both of us; but that infant is my father’s last charge to me, and I will keep it.’

‘If you would only trust me with the secret of its birth, I could fight your battle with you,’ said Mr Courtney sadly.

‘I will trust no one, sir. I have lost all that I cared for in this world, through its means, and I will at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I have remained true to myself.’

‘Very well, my dear; good-night; and remember I am still your friend,’ replied the planter, as he walked slowly away.

Lizzie looked after him for a moment, and then returning to the apartment, and regardless of the presence of Hugh Norris, she flung herself into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears.

‘Still my friend!’ she repeated. ‘Yes, but a friend without any trust or confidence left in me. Ah! what is the use of his assurances? I can read his heart too well! I have not a friend left in the world.’

CHAPTER II.

AS she said the words, Captain Norris sprang towards her.

‘Not a friend left in the world, Liz! Oh! how can you say such a cruel thing whilst I am here?’

She could not answer him immediately for weeping, but she stretched forth her hand and laid it on his arm.

‘Forgive me, Captain Norris. I know that you are my friend, but grief makes us all selfish. Yet that they should think such a thing of me,—that even Mr Courtney, who has known me from a little child, should suspect me of so unworthy an action, it is bitterly, bitterly hard.’

‘You are speaking in riddles to me, Lizzie! Of what do they suspect you? Surely of nothing of which you need be ashamed? If so, they must answer to me for it. Your dead father honoured me with his friendship, and no one shall insult his daughter whilst I am able to prevent it.’

‘I should have known that I might count upon your championship, Captain Norris; but it is useless. I have entangled myself in a net from which I see no prospect of freedom. You must leave me to bear the consequences by myself.’

‘I shall do no such thing!’ replied the Captain warmly. ‘What is the worth of friendship if it cannot stand by you in the time of need? Confide in me, Lizzie. Tell me your trouble, and let us devise a way out of it together.’

‘We cannot do that,’ replied Lizzie mournfully; ‘but you shall hear it, all the same. If I did not tell you, San Diego would soon do so. All the hands are talking of it by this time. Even that yellow girl in the verandah is ready to believe me to have fallen to a level with herself.’

‘You alarm me!’ exclaimed Hugh Norris. ‘What is it they dare to say of you?’

‘That that child is mine!’

‘What child? I did not know there was a child here.’

‘You are the last to hear of it then,’ replied Lizzie bitterly. ‘The smallest lad on the plantation has discussed it before now. I mean the infant which Rosa has in her arms. It is not mine! I hope you will believe me when I say so. But I have no means of proving the truth of what I say.’

‘You surprise me beyond measure,’ said Captain Norris. ‘In what does the difficulty lie, and why cannot you appeal to the real parents to help you out of it?’

‘Captain Norris, you must not question me too closely, lest I should betray a secret I have sworn to keep. Be satisfied with what I tell you. It was only yesterday my father gave me that child to nurse for him. He asked me to keep it through the night, and in the morning he would get a proper person to take charge of it. You have heard the sequel. By the morning, God had called him away, and I am left with this burden on my hands for ever!’

‘But, Lizzie, forgive me if I do not follow you. What reason is there for your keeping the child? What interest had your father in it? Why should you not send it to the people he intended to entrust it to?’

‘Perhaps I might have done so if this suspicion had not fallen upon me; but now, what would be the use of it? Absent or present, the child will be regarded as mine. I shall have to bear the stigma; I may as well have the satisfaction of knowing I have fulfilled my dead father’s wishes.’

‘Do you know who are the parents of the child?’

Lizzie was silent.

‘I see that you do. Surely they will never permit you innocently to bear this awful shame?’

‘Captain Norris, when my father first showed me that child, he extracted a solemn oath from me never to reveal anything I knew or might guess concerning it. It is useless your questioning me. My tongue is tied, and whatever my silence may cost me, I am bound to endure.’

‘But surely your lover, De Courcelles, does not believe this slanderous lie about you, Lizzie? He will stand up in your defence, whatever the world may say, and fight it with you?’

‘Oh, don’t talk of him! Don’t mention his name!’ cried Lizzie, with a sudden burst of grief. ‘He does believe it, Captain Norris, and he has cast me off. We are parted for ever. Our engagement is at an end.’

‘The cur!’ exclaimed Norris contemptuously.

‘You shall not call him so! What else could he do?’ rejoined Lizzie hastily. ‘What would you do, if the woman you had engaged yourself to marry, proved to be a wanton? You would say she was not fit to be your wife, and you would be right. Until this stigma is lifted off me, I am not fit to become the wife of any honest man.’

‘But it does not rest upon you, in my estimation,’ replied her companion. ‘I do not believe it; no one should ever make me do so except yourself. I would take your word against that of a thousand witnesses, Lizzie.’

‘Thank you, thank you!’ she exclaimed, reddening with pleasure at the sound of his honest voice. ‘You are indeed a friend in the time of need. But Monsieur de Courcelles thinks otherwise. He has told me to my face that unless I will divulge the names of the parents of this child, everything between us must be at an end. And so it is at an end. I cannot break my word to the dead. Besides—there are other reasons why I should be true to my trust.’

‘You will at least tell me one thing, Lizzie. You know to whom this child belongs, do you not? I ask it in your own interests.’

‘I do.’

‘Then go to them, my dear, and tell them the dilemma in which the promise you have given on their account has placed you. Ask them to release you from it. Surely no one could be so inhuman as to desire their shame (for I presume shame is at the bottom of this mystery) to spoil the life of an innocent woman? Oh! if I only knew their names myself, I would proclaim them far and wide, until I forced them to release you from this cruel bondage.’

‘It is impossible, Captain Norris!’

‘Impossible for you to go to them?’

‘Impossible that my going could do any good in the matter. I cannot rid myself of the blame, without shifting it on the shoulders of another, and that my oath forbids me to do. Pray leave me, Captain Norris. Leave me to bear it as best I may—alone! You heard what Mr Courtney has kindly proposed,—that I shall live on here, and continue my dear father’s work. I mean to do so, and if God spares the child, it shall live with me. The coloured people will not despise us. They have too many of such cases amongst themselves, and for the rest, I am strong enough to suffer without sinking under it.’

‘But not alone, dear Lizzie!’ exclaimed Hugh Norris, taking her hand. ‘If your engagement to Monsieur de Courcelles is indeed broken off, let me speak again. You would not listen to me last week on his account; listen to me now on your own. Come to me, and let me fight the battle of life for all three of us—you and me and the child. If it were really your child, Lizzie, I should say the same. When I told you I loved you, I did not mean that I loved some ideal creature raised from my own imagination, but you—yourself, with all your faults (if you have faults) and follies (which cannot be greater than my own), and am willing to condone everything, for the privilege of loving you. Let me try to make you forget this sorrow. In England, amidst new scenes and new friends, you may learn to feel differently, even towards me, and look back on San Diego as a bad dream, that has passed away for ever.’

Lizzie pressed his hand gratefully.

‘How good you are to me,’ she answered, ‘and how true! I am sure you will make the best and most loving of husbands, and some woman will be very happy with you. But that woman will not be me! I would not wrong you, my dear friend, by accepting your generous proposal. Why should I cast this shadow over your honourable life, or profess to offer you a heart not worthy of your acceptance? I love Henri de Courcelles! Ah! don’t shrink from me. I know he is unworthy and unjust, nor can I believe he has ever really cared for me; but he managed to win my love, and I cannot take it back from him so suddenly. By-and-by, perhaps, when this wound is somewhat healed, and time has enabled me to see more clearly, I shall be strong enough to shake off the fascination that enthralls me; but just now, I can only weep over its decay, as I weep over the grave of my lost father. And so you see how utterly unworthy I am of the noble offer you have made me.’

‘Not in my eyes,’ persisted Hugh Norris. ‘I can never think of you but as the dearest and most self-sacrificing of women, and I shall keep the place in my heart open for you to my life’s end. But I will worry you no further now. Only say if I can do anything for you, Lizzie, before I go.’

‘Nothing,’ she sighed. ‘Unless it be to come to see me again, and comfort me as you have done to-day.’

His face brightened with pleasure at her proposal, and he acceded to it joyfully.

‘I will come up to-morrow if it will not be too soon,’ he answered. ‘I have not landed my coolies yet, and the Trevelyan may be in port for some weeks yet.’

‘How is that?’ demanded Lizzie.

‘On account of this fever, and also of the town riots. My consignee is afraid of both moral and physical infection. There was an attack planned on Government House last night, and only just discovered in time. The rebels had laid a train of gunpowder right under the state rooms. There would have been a fearful sacrifice of life had they succeeded.’

‘How terrible! Were they caught?’

‘Unfortunately they were not, for they got off to the Alligator Swamp as soon as the alarm was given. And no one dares follow them there: the danger is too great. They are watching outside it, however, and as soon as they come out, they will be killed or arrested.’

‘Poor creatures,’ said Liz, with a shudder, ‘they will not be able to hold out long. Twelve hours in the Alligator Swamp is said to be certain death. Its poisonous atmosphere kills all those who escape the alligators. It is too fearful to think of.’

‘Yes, I fancy the poor devils will be forced to surrender, and they will get no quarter from the Governor, Sir Russell Johnstone. He is in a great state of alarm about himself, and resolved to stamp the insurrection out at any cost.’

‘One cannot blame him. It is a case in which the few must suffer for the many. Is the Governor a nice man, Captain Norris?’

‘So-so. A very ordinary-looking Englishman,—more fit to till his own acres, I should imagine, than to govern a colony. He has certainly done little as yet to quell the ill-feeling in San Diego, which seems to be increasing every day. But I shall not be able to keep my coolies on board much longer. There are six hundred of them, and I shall not be sorry when their backs are turned. I have had enough of their company on the way from Calcutta.’

‘But they will make a bad exchange, I expect, from the hold of the Trevelyan to the cotton and sugar plantations. I have heard poor father say you spoil your coolies, Captain Norris, and make them quite dissatisfied with their reception in the West Indies.’

‘Oh, that’s a libel!’ cried the young man, smiling. ‘I may have tried to make their life aboard ship as little irksome as possible, but it has gone no further. But I am afraid they are mostly shipped under false pretences, and led to expect less work and more pay than they are ever likely to get in these islands. Their existence, at the best, is hardly worth living.’

‘You are right there, and no one who has dwelt amongst them, as I have, could fail to sympathise with their troubles. They have much to bear, and little to compensate them for it. And with all their faults, they are a patient people, although very impulsive. That poor girl in the verandah did me a bad turn this morning, but she is ready to break her heart about it now.’

‘Ah, Missy Liz, I’se so sorry!’ cried Rosa, who had overheard the words that concerned herself.

‘But you can’t undo the mischief, you see, Rosa, so try and make up for it by being a faithful servant to your mistress now,’ said Hugh Norris, as he passed over the threshold on his way home.

The yellow girl did not take correction from a stranger very well. She shrugged her shoulders, and pulled a face after the retreating form of Captain Norris, as she entered the bungalow with her infant charge.

‘What business of that Massa Norris to speak me?’ she inquired, pouting. ‘If he want to scold some one, he’d better go and find dat coolie girl Judy, what took the baby first. She’s a berry bad girl—rude and impident—with a tongue as long as an alligator’s.’

‘Do you mean Mammy Lila’s granddaughter?’ inquired Lizzie. ‘When did you see her, Rosa?’

‘Oh! she’s big enough to be seen, Missy Liz, and she’s just as cunning as they’re made. Judy has left Shanty Hill now, and come to live alongside of her own people, and dis morning Massa Courcelles has given her work on the plantation. And dat gal’s tongue—how it do run!’

‘About me, I suppose?’ said Liz bitterly.

‘Yes, Missy Liz—that’s just it—about you. Judy tells every one how you went up to Shanty Hill in the middle of the night wid dis poor little baby in your arms, and how you was so ill and weak you nearly tumbled down on de floor; and Mammy Lila took de baby, and you tell her, “Silence and secrecy,” which means, “Don’t tell nuffin to nobody on your life.”’

‘And every one believes it was my own baby I took to Mammy Lila, Rosa, the same as you did?’

‘What can they believe, Missy Liz? I didn’t know what to believe myself. Dere’s not too many quite white babies knocking about de island, you know, and dis little one has no coloured blood in it. Dat’s plain to be seen. And dat Judy is so impident. She’d say anything. She says she skeered you so when she brought the baby back agin when Mammy Lila died, dat you nearly fainted, and it was de shock and de trouble that has killed de poor Doctor right away.’

‘Well, well, Rosa, don’t speak of it any more at present. It turns my heart sick to hear it. Take the infant into my room, and put it to bed. Judy’s talk, however untrue, can do me no further harm; and you mustn’t forget, whilst judging her, that you thought and said pretty much the same yourself.’

‘Ah, yes, Missy Liz; but den I’se berry sorry, and I’ll be a good gal to you now,’ replied Rosa, with the nigger’s ready excuse for anything they may have done wrong.

‘And I believe you, so let the matter rest,’ said Lizzie, as the yellow girl disappeared with the baby, and she sat down at the table, resting her head upon her hand.

What a difference twenty-four hours had made in her life! Twenty-four hours ago she had possessed a father who loved her, a lover who respected her, friends who believed in her, a good name and a spotless reputation. Now, she seemed to have lost everything at one fell blow. Her father was gone, her lover lost, her friends stood afar off. She was publicly spoken of as an unmarried mother, and Maraquita’s sin was laid at her door. And she had no means of repudiating the scandal. Nothing but her bare word stood between her reputation and the world. Who would believe her? What woman would not deny such a crushing shame?

Her solemn oath to her father, the fathomless obligation under which they stood to Mr Courtney, the awful consequences to their benefactor which must follow a revelation of the truth, stared Lizzie in the face, like giant obstacles that forbid her even attempting to surmount them. What would she and her dead father have been but for the generosity extended to them through life by the planter’s hand?

He, a felon and a convict, and she, the daughter of a disgraced and dishonoured man, pointed at by the finger of scorn, shunned by the community of the virtuous and honest, a pariah and an outcast amongst men. No wonder her father had exacted her silence and obedience at the price of her salvation.

But would Maraquita be so untrue to all the instincts of honour and justice as to permit her adopted sister to continue to bear the shame which rightly belonged to herself? Liz remembered Hugh Norris’s advice to her to seek out the parents of the child, and beg them to clear her good name in the eyes of the world. The counsel was good. She only knew of Quita as the mother of the infant; but she could, at all events, secure an interview with her, and implore her to confess the truth to Mr and Mrs Courtney, and relieve her from so intolerable a burthen. Surely, thought Lizzie, if Quita knew what she was suffering—and likely to suffer—she could not have the heart to refuse her! Little Quita, whom she had held in her arms as a baby herself—who had learned to walk clinging to her hand—who had shared her girlish pleasures and sorrows with her, and told her all her secrets (except this last terrible one)—surely Quita would never blast her whole future in order to shield herself from the consequences of her sin!

Perhaps she did not know about Henri de Courcelles! Liz had loved this man too deeply to talk upon the subject; and as the engagement had never been publicly ratified, Quita might not be aware of the cruel separation her guilt had caused between them. If she knew that—if she were told that some one whom Liz loved as fondly as ever she could have loved the father of her child must be given up for ever, unless she spoke out—surely she would muster up courage to remove the heavy load she had laid upon her childhood’s friend.

As Lizzie arrived at this conclusion, she lifted up her head and breathed more freely. A light was breaking through her darkness. Perhaps, after all, she had condemned her adopted sister too hastily, and should have waited to see her before she passed judgment. The time had been too short, and events had been too hurried, to enable Maraquita to do her justice. Perhaps she was even ignorant of the blame cast upon her; and with this last charitable thought of her adopted sister, and a resolution to see her on the first opportunity, Lizzie sought her bed, and tried to compose herself to sleep.

CHAPTER III.

MARAQUITA was lying in her silken hammock, swinging under the orange trees, and thinking over the events of the last few days. They had been important ones for her. The unexpected death of the Doctor had frightened her beyond measure, and more than ever did she feel that Henri de Courcelles owed it to her to make every exertion in his power to remove the proof of her shame from San Diego. Until that was done, she should have no rest. But she was very undecided about Sir Russell Johnstone. She didn’t wish to marry him—all her heart (such as it was) was set on Henri de Courcelles—but yet she wanted to be the wife of the Governor of San Diego, and certain hints from her mother had shown her it would be the best, and perhaps the only way, to get out of the scrape she was in. And if she refused Sir Russell Johnstone, it would be all the same; her parents would never consent to her marrying Monsieur de Courcelles.

Maraquita tossed to and fro as she thought over these things, and made the hammock swing as far as its cords would admit, till the orange blossoms and their glossy leaves swept across her face, and old Jessica, who was watching from below as usual, called out to her young mistress to take care. Quita was trying to argue the matter out with herself (as silly people will) so as to make the pieces of the puzzle fit each other and please everybody all round, being too blind or too selfish, meanwhile, to see that the only person she was really bent on pleasing was herself. She believed that in a very few days she would be called upon to decide the matter, for her mother had received a letter from the Governor to ask if her daughter had returned to the White House, but she was hardly prepared, as she lay there that morning, to see Sir Russell’s barouche, with its pair of English horses, and its outriders, dash up the drive, and stop before the portals of her home. She flushed so rosy at the sight, that Jessica observed her emotion.

‘Dat only de Governor, missy, come to see Massa Courtney. De Governor’s a fine gennelman, isn’t he, missy? Got beautiful coat and trousers and waistcoat on, and fine whiskers, and nice red face. Dat Government House a beautiful place, too, and dat carriage lovely. I’d like to see my missy in a carriage like dat, wid fine English horses, and coachman, and all.’

‘What nonsense you are talking, Jessica,’ said Quita querulously, as she turned her head away. ‘Papa’s carriage is quite good enough for me, and I don’t want any other.’

‘Ah, but some day my missy marry fine gennelman, and have everyting dat’s nice and beautiful. Not one of dese island fellers—overseers and such like,’ continued the negress contemptuously, ‘with half de blood black in their veins, but a real English gennelman, with plenty money, and all white blood.’

Maraquita reddened, and yawned, and turned pettishly away. She knew well enough to whom old Jessica was alluding, and she resented the hint as an impertinence.

Meanwhile Sir Russell Johnstone had rushed into the presence of Mr and Mrs Courtney.

‘Fancy, my dear sir,’ he was exclaiming, ‘that yesterday the police actually discovered a train of gunpowder laid right under the banqueting-room of Government House! Had it not been for their vigilance, at the next dinner-party I gave, we might all have been blown up—I, you, your wife, even your lovely daughter. It is too horrible a catastrophe to contemplate!’

‘Horrible indeed!’ echoed his host. ‘But are you sure that all is now safe? Has a thorough search been made?’

‘They tell me so, and that I need have no further alarm. But it has shaken my nerves, I can tell you that. And the delinquents are not caught either, though the native police are on the alert.’

‘How is that?’

‘They have escaped to the Alligator Swamp; though why they can’t pursue them there, beats me altogether.’

‘Ah, my dear Sir Russell,’ cried Mr Courtney, ‘you don’t know what the Alligator Swamp is like, or you would not be surprised. Even a negro will not venture to enter it, unless he is in fear of his life. It is a regular morass of green slime. It is impossible to tell at each step you take whether you will sink to the bottom of it or not; and it is infested with alligators or caymen of the largest and most ferocious breed. No living creatures but the caymen could breathe such an atmosphere; for the green swamp raises poisonous fungi, the vapours alone of which are almost certain death. These wretches who have plotted against your life cannot possibly escape punishment. If they do not fall into the hands of the police, they will certainly die, the victims of the pestilential atmosphere of the Alligator Swamp.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied the Governor, who was a short, stout man of ordinary appearance, and with rather a round and rosy face, ‘for I don’t consider my appointment worth the risk of being blown up. The island seems to me to be in a regular state of rebellion, and I don’t like it. If any more plots against my safety are discovered, I shall resign, and return to England. Her Majesty would be the last person to wish me to remain if there is the slightest fear of danger.’

‘Oh, there must not be—there shall not be!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney pathetically, as the pictures of a retreating Governor and a lost son-in-law floated before her mental vision. ‘These wretches must be brought to judgment, and executed. I would have them all hanged, if I were you, Sir Russell. The idea of their attempting such an outrage! Hanging would be too good for them.’

‘I am not sure if I can hang them; but, if so, you may be sure I will,’ rejoined the Governor. ‘Why, it makes a man quite nervous of going to his bed. It’s absurd—ridiculous—an insult to the British Government!’

‘It must be stamped out at any cost,’ said Mr Courtney; ‘and until it is—until things are more settled—if you would like to vacate Government House for a little while, and would accept the hospitality of Beauregard, Sir Russell, why, all I can say is, that everything I possess (humble as it may be) is at your service.’

‘But wouldn’t they say I had run away?’ replied the Governor. ‘I should like it above all things, but the papers have been rather spiteful about me of late, and I am afraid they would declare I had shown the white feather.’

‘But you must think of your own safety—that is the first consideration, surely!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney. ‘And you must think of others too, Sir Russell,—of those who care for you. My poor Maraquita will be in a fever of anxiety as soon as she hears this news.’

She had begun to be afraid that his own peril had somewhat displaced Maraquita from the Governor’s thoughts, and the idea that he might even be frightened out of San Diego without fulfilling his promise, filled her with alarm. She determined that if possible the engagement should be ratified at once, and then, if anything further happened to frighten Sir Russell back to England, he would be compelled to take his wife with him. Her ruse had the desired effect, and the mention of her daughter turned the Governor’s thoughts in another direction.

‘Ah, the beautiful Miss Courtney. Pray don’t think that I have forgotten her, in the exercise of my functions. To quell this native rebellion is the first duty I owe to my Queen and country, but my heart has been at the White House, my dear madam, all the time. How is your sweet daughter? Have you told her of my proposal? Is it possible I may have the great pleasure of seeing her?’

Mrs Courtney was not quite sure what to answer. She glanced at her husband, but he was standing with his back to her, and would make no sign, so she was thrown upon her own resources. Yet she was a woman, and when it is a matter of finesse, when do a woman’s resources fail?

‘She is better, dear Sir Russell—much better, almost well, in fact, but still weak, and unequal to any exertion. I did try to approach the subject of your most flattering proposal to her on her return home, but her agitation became so great, I was forced to relinquish it. You must not condemn her weakness. The prospect is a very dazzling one to a simple and innocent girl like our Maraquita.’

‘Do you mean to tell me, then, that she is favourably disposed towards me?’ inquired the Governor excitedly.

It is true that he was a Governor, and would perhaps have been somewhat surprised at any woman in San Diego refusing his suit. But at the same time he was fifty years of age, stout, bald, and past the age of romance, and it was enough to make any such man excited, to hear that a pure and lovely girl of eighteen was ready and eager to fly into his arms. He was quite aware of the value of the position he had to offer to the planter’s daughter, but he was conceited enough to be gulled into the belief that she could actually fall in love with him, more than with the advantages which a marriage with him would entail. His rosy face became rubicund with expectant pleasure, and he already saw himself with the most beautiful woman in San Diego folded in his embrace.

‘Favourably disposed!’ echoed Mrs Courtney. ‘My dear Sir Russell, that is not the word! Maraquita is overpowered by the preference you have shown towards her, only too shy to offer you her timid girlish love in return. She is so afraid she can give you nothing worth the having in exchange for your noble proposal to make her your wife.’

‘If she will give me herself, it is all I ask,’ returned the Governor. ‘And now, tell me, may I see her, and plead my cause in person?’

‘Oh, Sir Russell, one moment!’ cried Mrs Courtney, hurriedly. ‘Let Mr Courtney offer you some refreshment, whilst I prepare our sweet girl for your visit. You do not know how shy and sensitive she is. The very mention of marriage makes her blush. Let me go to my child, and when she is calm enough to receive you, I will return and tell you so.’

‘As you please, my dear madam, but don’t try my patience too far. Mr Courtney and I will have a cigar together, and talk over our plans for the future, whilst you are gone.’ And with a courtly bow to his hostess, Sir Russell let her leave the room.

Mrs Courtney hastened at once to Maraquita’s side. Hastened is not exactly the word for the ungraceful waddle which she used when she wished to expedite her footsteps, but she walked as fast as her unwieldy form would permit her, to the shady spot where Quita’s hammock swung under the orange trees, and having dismissed Jessica to the house, she entered at once upon her subject.

‘Quita, my darling, Sir Russell Johnstone has come for your answer to his proposal.’

She was clever in her own way, this half-educated, half-bred Spanish woman. She knew that if she gave Quita time to reflect, she would probably think of a way out of the dilemma in which she found herself, or consult her lover, and be persuaded perhaps to elope with him, and ruin her prospects for ever. She had read enough of her daughter’s mind on the first day she returned home, to see that all her inclinations were opposed to marrying Sir Russell Johnstone, and if she were persuaded to consent to it, it must be through finesse, or an appeal to her ambition. What Mrs Courtney wanted now, was to hurry Maraquita into accepting the Governor’s proposal, and make her so far commit herself that she could not back out of it afterwards. And she had good materials to work upon, for Maraquita was a youthful copy of her mother, as vain, and selfish, and indolent, and heartless, and as fond of luxuries and the good things of this life. But she was considerably startled at hearing she had to make up her mind so soon, and her large dark eyes—so like those of a deer—opened wide with consternation and alarm.

‘Oh, mother! Surely I need not give him an answer to-day. It is so very soon. I have had no time to think about it.’

‘No time to think about it!’ echoed Mrs Courtney; ‘why, the case is plain enough. What thinking does it require? Sir Russell offers to make you Lady Johnstone, and the mistress of Government House. He has an income of many thousands a year, and your father will settle a handsome dowry on you if you marry him. You will be the richest woman, and the woman of highest rank, in San Diego, and every soul in the island will exclaim at your good fortune. What more, in the name of Heaven, do you want, Maraquita?’

‘I am so afraid I sha’n’t love him,’ sighed the girl, with a last remnant of womanly feeling.

‘Very well,’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney, turning her back upon her daughter, and professing to be about to leave her, ‘I will go and tell Sir Russell, and at once! He is waiting your answer, and I can’t keep a Governor on tenterhooks for hours. If you refuse him, he says he is going back to England by the next steamer, and shall never return here, as he is sick of San Diego, and will only stay on condition you become his wife. But as you won’t try to love him, it is of no use.’

‘Stay, mother, stay!’ cried Quita hurriedly; ‘don’t go just yet. Wait one moment, and speak to me. Is it really true that Sir Russell will leave San Diego if I don’t marry him?’

‘Didn’t I say so, Maraquita. He declares that nothing shall make him stay; and if he returns, it will be with a Lady Johnstone to preside over Government House for him. He will marry an English girl, and you will have the mortification of seeing some woman, with half your beauty, enjoying all the advantages you have been fool enough to refuse. Quita, I have no patience with you.’

‘But, mamma—mamma, I haven’t refused him. I don’t mean to refuse him! If (as you say) I must make up my mind at once, I have made it up! I accept Sir Russell’s proposal, and you can go and tell him so.’

‘Oh, my darling girl!’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney effusively, ‘I was sure you would see this grand prospect in its proper light at last. How proud and delighted your father will be to hear your decision. But you must give Sir Russell his answer in person, my love. You must let me bring him here, and tell him yourself that you will be his wife.’

‘But I am not fit to see any one. I am so untidy!’ cried Quita, jumping out of her hammock, and standing before her mother.

She was clothed in a long loose robe, of saffron colour, with hanging sleeves, that showed her white arms, and a belt that spanned her slender waist. Her dusky hair lay in a rippling mass upon her shoulders, and her fair face was flushed with excitement, and perhaps regret. She had never looked more lovely in her life, and Mrs Courtney regarded her with pardonable pride and admiration.

‘You are charming, my dear! I will not have you wait to make a single alteration in your dress; and Sir Russell is so impatient, that he will readily pardon the negligence of your morning attire. He knows you have been ill, and are disinclined for much exertion. Sit down in this chair, Quita, and I will bring him to you in another minute. Oh, my dear child,’ concluded Mrs Courtney, with a close embrace, ‘how thankful I am that all is about to end so happily for you! You have half killed me by your thoughtlessness and imprudence.’

There were genuine tears in her mother’s eyes as she pronounced the words, and Quita felt for the first time, perhaps, what a terrible risk she had run.

‘Never mind, mamma!’ she whispered, ‘it is over now, and he—he has promised me that I shall never hear anything more about it. Let us try and forget it ever occurred.’

‘Yes, my dearest girl, that is just what you must do. Blot out the past, like a hideous dream. It has been a terrible experience for you, and so long as you remained unmarried, I should always have trembled for your safety. But now—as the wife of the Governor, my dear child’s future is assured, and we will never mention the hateful subject again—not even to each other.’

‘No! and, mamma, you told me the other day that (excepting for certain reasons) you would have had some changes made on the plantation. Couldn’t you manage to have those changes made now. Not too suddenly, you know, so as to excite suspicion, but as if they were brought about in the natural course of events. Can’t you persuade papa,’ said Maraquita, hiding her face in her mother’s bosom, ‘to engage a—a—new overseer? It would be better for all of us.’

‘You are quite right, my darling,’ whispered Mrs Courtney back again, ‘and I am glad you have so much sense. Trust me, dear, that you shall not be annoyed in this matter. As soon as your marriage is settled, I will take you up on the hill range for change of air, and before you return we will have done what you suggest. I have a dozen good reasons to give your father for engaging some one else in that person’s place.’

‘Don’t be harsh with him,’ faltered Maraquita; ‘remember that—that—’

But this was a dangerous topic, on which Mrs Courtney did not choose to dilate.

‘I can remember nothing now, my dear, except that Sir Russell is waiting for your answer, and that I must go and fetch him to you. Now, be a woman, Maraquita! Think of all you owe to yourself, and the brilliant future that lies before you! I really believe I should go out of my mind with grief if anything happened to prevent it.’

Mrs Courtney walked back to the house as quickly as she was able, and Maraquita lay in the bamboo chair, with her eyes closed, and the unshed tears trembling like dewdrops on her long dark lashes. She had not to wait long! In another minute her mother had returned, in company with the Governor, and Quita had to disperse the vision of her handsome Spanish lover, with his graceful form and romantic bearing, and open her eyes upon a stout and pursy little Englishman, with a bald head and uninteresting features, and legs too short for his body.

But there was no mistaking the expression of his beaming face, and the girl saw at a glance that the matter had been concluded for her, and she was already in his eyes the future Lady Johnstone.

‘My dear Miss Courtney—may I not say my dear Maraquita?’ he commenced, ‘I cannot tell you how flattered I feel by your kind acceptance of my offer, nor how much I hope it will be the forerunner of our life-long happiness.’

He raised the hand she extended, to his lips as he spoke, and she felt compelled to reply, in a faltering voice,—

‘I hope it will—’

‘I won’t hear of any doubts about it,’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney triumphantly. ‘I feel sure, Sir Russell, that my sweet child’s happiness is safe in your hands; and as for yours—why, if the affection and duty of a simple and innocent girl can secure it, it will be as safe as her own. You must not forget, my dear sir, that you have chosen to honour a very young girl—almost a child—with your preference, and will, I know, make allowance for any faults that may arise from ignorance of the world and of society.’

‘I know that I have chosen the loveliest and sweetest girl in San Diego!’ cried the Governor enthusiastically, ‘and that it will be the aim of my life to surround her with every luxury and pleasure that I can afford; and as for her faults, I shall never see any to make allowance for.’

‘Oh, Sir Russell,’ replied Mrs Courtney, in the same strain, ‘you must not spoil my child! I know myself that her chief fault is that which will mend every day; still she is very young—there is no denying that—and will often need a little kindly counsel as to how she should act in her high position.’

‘She will only need to be herself, and to act on her own impulses, to make the most charming hostess that ever presided at the Government House. But we have not yet spoken of when the marriage is to take place, Mrs Courtney,—and I hope you will persuade Maraquita not to keep me waiting too long.’

‘You are very impatient,’ she replied, smiling, ‘but you must not forget that my dear child has been ill, and is still very weak and fragile. Still, if you make a point of it, I am sure neither Mr Courtney nor myself will stand in the way of a speedy wedding.’

‘But what will Miss Maraquita say?’ demanded the Governor, bending over her.

‘My mother can decide for me,’ she murmured faintly. ‘I have never disobeyed you yet, mamma, have I?’

‘Never! my dear, never! You have been the best and most dutiful of daughters, and deferred to your parents’ wishes in all things—’

But here the remembrance of certain late events put a sudden stop to Mrs Courtney’s eloquence, and she watched the crimson blood that rose to Quita’s cheek, in alarm. The girl was still weak: it was dangerous to provoke an emotion which she might find it impossible to quell.

‘But I think we have discussed this exciting topic sufficiently for to-day,’ she continued. ‘Maraquita is easily upset, and I should be sorry to see her thrown back again. Will you settle the knotty question of the wedding-day with me, Sir Russell, after you have finished talking to my daughter? I don’t fancy you will find there are many difficulties in the way—but we must think first of Maraquita’s strength, and how we can restore it for the important occasion.’

‘Certainly! that is the chief consideration,’ replied Sir Russell; ‘what do you propose to do about it?’

‘I was thinking of taking her up to the hill range for a week, to escape these enervating land breezes. I think a little change would do her more good than anything else.’

‘The very thing!’ exclaimed Sir Russell, ‘and you can have the use of the Government Bungalow, and all that is in it. When will you start? To-morrow? If so, I will send word at once to have everything in readiness for your reception. Don’t trouble yourself about taking your carriage and horses, mine will be there, and at your entire disposal. And I trust that after the rest of a day or two, Maraquita will permit me to join your party, and accompany her on her excursions in search of health. I have an Arab pony that carries a lady to perfection, and, with your leave, I will send it up for her use. What does my fiancée say? Does my proposal meet with her approval?’

‘She would be a very ungrateful girl, and very hard to please, if it did not,’ said her mother, answering for her; and then perceiving that Quita’s self-command was almost at an end, and that she was on the point of breaking down, she added playfully,—

‘And now I am going to be hard-hearted and carry you off, Sir Russell, for my poor child is overcome with all this excitement, and unable to bear any more at present. Please be good, and return with me to the White House; and if you will call upon us again this evening, I have no doubt she will be calmer, and better able to thank you for all your kind offers on her behalf.’

The Governor rose at once (for he was a gentleman, although he was ugly and ill-formed), and took his leave. As he did so, he stooped down and kissed Maraquita on the cheek. It was not an out-of-the-way thing for a newly-accepted lover to do, but the salute, quietly as it was given, seemed to sting her. She did not resent it whilst her mother and Sir Russell Johnstone were in sight, but as soon as the doors of the White House had closed upon them, she hid her face in her hands, and burst into a flood of tears.

CHAPTER IV.

SHE was still weeping quietly, when the branches of the orange tree which formed a leafy bower around her, were parted, and a voice exclaimed, with passionate intensity,—

‘Maraquita!’

The girl sprang to her feet without any effort to conceal her tears. Henri de Courcelles stood beside her.

‘Oh, go!’ she implored, ‘go at once. You don’t know the risk you are running. My mother suspects us, and she may be back in another moment. For my sake, Henri, go.’

‘Not unless you will tell me the cause of your grief. Is it because this burden is too heavy for you? If so, come with me, and let us share it, and fight the world together.’

‘I cannot talk with you about it now, Henri,’ replied Maraquita, with a look of alarm; ‘it is impossible. You must leave me. I see Jessica coming from the house.’

‘Then where will you meet me, for I shall not rest until you have satisfied my curiosity; besides, I have important news for you about—it.’

This intelligence made Quita change her mind. She was intensely anxious to have the assurance of her own complete safety, and she could be cunning enough where her inclinations were concerned.

‘Have you done—what I asked you?’ she gasped.

‘I have made everything right, but I cannot explain the matter to you in a moment, nor where there is any fear of our being overheard.’

‘Wait for me in the oleander thicket, then,’ cried Maraquita. ‘I will be there in five minutes.’

Henri de Courcelles nodded acquiescence, and disappeared as old Jessica came up to her young mistress.

‘Missus Courtney send me to ask if my missy like to have someting to eat and drink now; and will missy come back to de house, or will she have it brought out here under de trees?’ asked the negress.

‘Neither, Jessica. Tell mamma I am not hungry or thirsty, only very sleepy, and I want to be left alone for an hour or two. I can call you when I wake.’

‘If missy sleepy, better come and sleep in house,’ urged Jessica. ‘So many flies and ’skeeters about here.’

‘I wish you would let me do as I like, Jessica,’ said Quita, ‘and keep your suggestions to yourself.’

‘I’se very sorry, missy. I won’t say any more, only stop here and keep off de flies and tings from your face.’

‘You’re enough to drive a saint mad!’ cried Maraquita, stamping her foot. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted to be left alone? What is it to you if I like flies and mosquitoes buzzing about me? Go back to the house, and don’t come near me again till I give you leave.’

The old nurse obeyed without a murmur; but she did murmur, for all that. The coloured people are very secretive, and can assume an appearance of complete innocence, all the time they are cognisant of their employer’s most important secrets.

‘Ah! my poor little missy,’ muttered Jessica to herself, as she shambled on her bare flat feet towards the house, ‘you think ole black nurse blind, but she see too well. She know all about de baby at Doctor’s bungalow, and who’s de fader and moder of it, as well as you. And she will see her little missy revenged, before many moons is ober her head, into de bargain. Cuss dat oberseer!’

Meanwhile Maraquita, having watched Jessica into the house, through the branches of the orange tree, stole out the opposite side, and, keeping well out of view of the windows, took her way towards the oleander thicket, which lay between her home and De Courcelles’ bungalow. It was a wild patch of flowering shrubs, densely planted together, and forming a sufficient ambush to conceal any number of persons from the public gaze. There was a wooden bench in one part of it, where Maraquita and De Courcelles had often held their moonlight trysts together; and there she found him eager to tell his news, and claim his reward.

Quita sunk down upon the bench, and trembled. She was not only weak from her recent illness, but she dreaded the scene which might follow the impending revelation.

‘You are far from well yet, my Quita,’ said Henri de Courcelles, as he folded his arms about her trembling form; ‘but I have something to tell you which will set your mind at rest.’

‘Tell it to me quickly, then,’ rejoined Maraquita. ‘Have you sent it out of the island? Are you sure I shall never hear of it again?’

‘No, I cannot quite promise you that,’ replied De Courcelles, with an intuitive disgust (even in the midst of his passion) for her undisguised selfishness. ‘It has never been in my hands, so it was impossible I could form any plans for it. But circumstances have fallen out so fortunately, that I don’t see any chance of suspicion falling upon you.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand you,’ said Quita pettishly. ‘If it is to remain in San Diego, the secret may come out any day, and my only safety will be in leaving the island.’

‘Wait a moment, dearest, and listen to me. It seems that the day before the Doctor’s death, he brought the child home to his bungalow, where it now is—’