A CROWN OF SHAME.

VOL. III.

A CROWN OF SHAME.

A NOVEL.

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

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

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

1888.

EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COMPANY
PRINTERS

CONTENTS.

PAGE
CHAPTER I.	[ 1]
CHAPTER II.	[ 19]
CHAPTER III.	[ 57]
CHAPTER IV.	[ 94]
CHAPTER V.	[ 129]
CHAPTER VI.	[ 165]
CHAPTER VII.	[ 201]

A CROWN OF SHAME.

CHAPTER I.

ROSA, the yellow girl, was sauntering up and down the avenue of tulip trees which formed an approach of a quarter of a mile to the plantation of Beauregard, in a very discontented and sullen humour. She was holding Maraquita’s baby in her arms, and she was dressed in her very best. Her cotton gown was of the deepest rose colour; on her feet she wore white stockings and prunella shoes with sandals; her long black curls—in which she prided herself there was no trace of negro crispness—were surmounted by a handkerchief of bright orange silk, which Miss Lizzie had given her as a reward for her kindness to her little charge. But what was the good of it all? thought Rosa; what was the use of wearing her gilt earrings and her string of coral beads, when there was no one to see them—not even a coolie boy left on the plantation? For this was a general holiday. Not a hand was to work, either in the coffee or sugar fields, for it was Miss Maraquita’s wedding-day, and all the coloured people were off to the Fort Church to witness the ceremony. All, that is to say, except poor Rosa. But Miss Lizzie had refused to give her leave. She had promised the yellow girl that she would take charge of the baby in the afternoon, and let her join the big dinner that was to be given to all the hands at sunset, and the dance that would follow it, but she would not consent to let her go to the church. Lizzie had her own reasons for the denial—Rosa might have been sure that she would never have been unjust or unkind to any one—but she did not choose to tell them to her servant.

She thought it would scarcely be delicate to let Rosa, who had the care of the poor outcast baby, and was like a second mother to it, form one of the gaping crowd to see Maraquita married to the Governor. It was something too terrible to Lizzie to think that her adopted sister could do this thing, and she decided that herself and all who had any part to bear in her sinful secret were much better out of the way. So she had condemned Rosa to remain in the plantation with the infant, who was growing quite a big child, and the yellow girl was proportionately discontented.

There was a certain young Creole called Juan who had been paying her great attention lately, and whom she entertained serious thoughts of marrying. The silk handkerchief, the earrings, and the coral beads had all been donned for Juan’s benefit, and now he was off to the Fort with some other girl maybe—with Chloe, or Celeste, or Marie—and she had to walk up and down this stupid avenue with the baby in her arms. Rosa could have shaken the baby for keeping her from the much-coveted spectacle.

As she was thinking over her disappointment, Judy—Mammy Lila’s granddaughter—walked from behind a tall bush, and confronted her.

‘Hillo, Rosa!’ she cried. ‘Is dat Missy Liz’s baby? My! how dat grown; she’s pretty heavy now, I guess.’

Judy was an ugly, cunning-looking young negress, of perhaps fifteen—tall and lanky and large-boned, with a propensity for lying and thieving and everything that was wrong.

‘Heavy?’ echoed Rosa; ‘you may say dat. She breaks my arm pretty well carrying her all day long. But ain’t you going to the wedding, Judy? It’s most time to be off. Don’t I wish I’se going too.’

‘Why ain’t you going, Rosa, gal? Uncle Mose say dat will be de finest sight ebber seen in San Diego. And you got your Sunday gown on too! Why you not go?’

‘’Cause Missy Liz say no; and I nebber go back to her if I disobey! But you’se going, Judy, sure?’

‘No, Rosa! I’se got bad head dis morning,’ replied Judy, with a cunning look, and her lean hand to her woolly hair, ‘and I’se can’t stand long walk. I’se better stay here till de dinner-bell sound.’

‘Dere now!’ cried Rosa, with vexation. ‘Ain’t dat a muddle? Why, I’d gib my best earrings to be able to go. I shall nebber forgive myself dat I not see Miss Quita’s wedding.’

‘You can see de carriages coming down de drive; and Miss Quita in her white dress—all lace,’ said Judy.

‘Dat ain’t de ting! But what you low niggers know about grand folk’s ways? I want to be one of de church company, and hear de wedding ceremony,’ replied Rosa, mouthing the long word.

‘So you can, den, Rosa. Jes’ gib de chile to me, and I’ll hold it till you come back. Don’t take no time to marry, you know; jest a few words, and it’s all over; and I won’t leave dis place while you’re gone.’

‘Is dat a fac’, Judy?’ exclaimed the yellow girl, with a brightening face. ‘Will you hold the baby whiles I gone? Den I’ll keep my word, and you shall hab de earrings, for you’re the berry pusson as I wanted to meet—dat’s so;’ and placing the infant in Judy’s arms, she disengaged the gilt trinkets from her ears, and laid them in her hand. ‘Judy, you’se a real good gal, and you won’t stir from dis avenue till I come back; and if you sees Miss Lizzie a-coming, you’ll bolt in bushes like rattlesnake? Is dat so?’

‘Dat is so, Rosa. I’ll keep her safe, nebber fear. I likes nussing de babies, and my head ain’t good for nuffin else dis morning.’

‘I’ll hurry back quick as I can directly dat’s over!’ cried Rosa, as she darted down the tulip tree avenue, in order to reach the Fort before the carriages from Beauregard.

As soon as she was out of sight, Judy gave one look around to make sure she was unobserved, and then dived with the child into the thick bushes that skirted the drive on either side. She had not gone far before she was met by Henri de Courcelles. He was dressed much as usual, but he was looking very pale and dissipated, and there was a dark look about his eyes that seemed as though he had been drinking hard, or going without his natural rest. As he encountered Judy, he accosted her roughly.

‘So you’ve got the child?’

‘Oh, yes, Massa Courcelles, and wid berry little trouble. Rosa jes’ mad to go to wedding. She jump wid joy when I tell her I’d hold de baby, and gib me her best earrings into de bargain; but I promise I be back here when she return from church, so massa won’t be long after her, eh?’

‘You shall be back as soon as ever it is possible: I promise you so much; but you must come with me to San Diego. You don’t suppose I’m going to carry that?’

‘Massa please,’ replied the coolie, shrugging her shoulders; ‘all same to me. I can tell Rosa anyting,—dat I’se too bad to walk, and took de baby to my hut, eh?’

‘I’ve no doubt you are equal to inventing any number of lies to suit your purpose; but now you must follow me.’

De Courcelles led the way as he spoke by many a devious path through the thicket, until they reached the outer boundary of the plantation, where he hustled Judy and the child into a close carriage which he had in waiting, and ordered the driver to take them to the Fort.

Meanwhile, Maraquita, dressed in her bridal robes of lace and orange blossoms, and with a costly veil covering her to the ground, stepped into the carriage which was to convey her to church. The vehicle had been re-painted for the auspicious occasion, and re-lined with a delicate silver grey brocade. The horses were caparisoned in silver harness, with large cockades of white ribbon at their ears, and the coloured coachman and footman in brand new liveries wore large bouquets of white flowers in their button-holes. Four or five other vehicles followed that in which sat the bride between her adoring parents, and contained relations of the family, and intimate friends who were staying in the house. It was a trying ordeal for Mr and Mrs Courtney, who were about to part with the one blossom of their marriage-tree; but though the father was nervous and agitated, and the mother could not prevent the tears rising to her eyes, the brilliant position their daughter had attained for herself was the greatest consideration in their minds, and outbalanced any pain they may have felt at the impending separation. Quita herself felt overwhelmed at the knowledge of her good fortune. She had so dreaded lest something might occur to mar her prospects, that she was almost hysterical at the idea that they were about to be consummated. She turned from one parent to the other in a glow of expectation and triumph, which flushed her usually pale cheeks, and lent a fire to her eye, that made her truly beautiful. As the carriage approached the Fort, in which the English Church was situated, they found the road lined with eager faces, both white and coloured, and a shout of welcome and congratulation went up as soon as they appeared. Sir Russell Johnstone was in the church porch waiting to receive his bride, and it would have been difficult to find a more lovely creature than stepped from the carriage and stood before him, trembling (as it appeared) with modesty and maiden shame. The church was crowded, every pew was filled with friends and acquaintances carrying nosegays, the aisles were lined with darkies grinning from ear to ear, the pillars and rails were wreathed with flowers and ferns. Never was there a prettier wedding, nor a more auspicious one. As Maraquita was led to the altar by her father and mother, the organist commenced to play, and the choir, who had been practising for the last month, sang a marriage hymn. Quita felt, for the time being, as if she were about to wed the man of her choice, and had no regrets to spare for a mistaken past. The flowers, the melody, the congratulatory looks by which she was surrounded, appealed to her senses, until she was ready to believe that she was worthy of them. Henri de Courcelles had no place whatever in her thoughts that morning. Out of sight, was truly out of mind with her shallow soul, and she remembered nothing but that she was about to become Lady Johnstone, and all the unmarried girls in San Diego were envying her good luck. She went through the service as calmly as possible. Mrs Courtney sobbed like a school-girl, her husband blew his nose and changed his feet every minute, and Sir Russell was visibly agitated. Only the beautiful young bride made her responses in an unfaltering voice, and held up her face as soon as the ceremony was over, to receive her bridegroom’s kiss, as quietly as if she had been married for ten years. It was over then, and there was nothing more to do but to sign her name in the register, and go forth to take her place in a world which seemed strewn with roses, and in which no inconvenient memories should rise up to trouble her. The organ pealed forth the wedding march. Sir Russell extended his arm for her acceptance, and Maraquita realised that at last she really was his wife, and no one could deprive her of the position he had bestowed upon her. She beamed with smiles of satisfaction as she walked down the aisle on her husband’s arm, returning the bows on either side, and treading on the roses, and lilies, and myrtle strewn by the children in her path. Sir Russell’s carriage, with its four horses and outriders, and its stately guard of honour, was waiting to receive her, and take her back to her father’s house for breakfast, and her heart swelled with pride as she caught sight of it, beyond the crowd that clustered round the church door and steps, and threatened to impede her way. But she had hardly placed her foot on the red carpet that had been laid down for her accommodation, when her eye fell on a group that riveted her to the spot, and almost made her breath stop,—a group that seemed to rise up as it were from the very earth itself, like a Nemesis, to rob her of her joy. Maraquita stared at it as if she were turning to stone, while her face grew deadly pale, and her limbs tottered under her. Her first impulse had been to scream, but the strong instinct of self-preservation inherent in every nature prevented her, and the effort to restrain herself resulted in her falling suddenly from Sir Russell’s support, and sinking to the ground in a dead faint. A dozen people were round her in a moment. Some declared it must be the heat—others, the excitement and fatigue—only one person amongst them all, and that was her mother, Mrs Courtney, discovered the real cause of her daughter’s emotion. She had come upon the scene in time to see the dark handsome face of Henri de Courcelles glaring like that of an avenging angel above the crowd, whilst in his arms he held up high on view his infant. She had cowered herself beneath the sight—no wonder it had affected her poor Maraquita. In a commanding voice she had desired the church peons to disperse the crowd, and when the bride was sufficiently recovered to be taken to her carriage, no one was left to molest her. One anxious despairing look passed between her mother and herself, but a hurried whisper from Mrs Courtney somewhat reassured her, and by the time they reached Beauregard, Maraquita was to all appearances herself again. But only to the view of strangers, for long after she had left San Diego, and the Government steamer was conveying Sir Russell and Lady Johnstone to a sister island to spend their honeymoon, she sat with her large dark eyes staring out into the star-bespangled night, in which she saw nothing but the picture of a man’s face, full of hate and frenzy and revenge,—of a man who held a little infant in his arms. And as she thought of it, Lady Johnstone felt the tears roll down her face (as they should not have rolled down the face of a newly-wedded woman), in memory of a past which she hated and loved, and longed-for and dreaded, all at the same time.

CHAPTER II.

HUGH NORRIS had not been slow to avail himself of Lizzie’s permission to visit her. He had knocked about a good deal in the world, and he had seen all sorts and conditions of women, but he had never met any one to interest him, and hold his sympathies, like the Doctor’s daughter. It was not only that she was firm and sweet in temper, and strong in mind, and clever and energetic—there was a more binding tie between them than that. They thought together; and if men and women would realise that kindred tastes and ideas form the only lasting bond between friends, there would be fewer unhappy marriages than there are. There is a great deal of talk heard on occasions about the happiness of surrendering one’s opinions in deference to those of the person one loves, but that notion is only believed in by the men who wish to be master, and ride roughshod over their household gods. To surrender is to give up one’s mental and moral liberty, and there may be duty in bondage, but there can be no pleasure. Marriage should be the cementing of a friendship between the sexes, and it is the only safe light by which to regard it. There should be plenty of giving in it, but no giving up! And Captain Norris felt that if Lizzie Fellows could learn to regard him as he did her, there would be very few jars in their domestic ménage. He had been detained in San Diego much longer than he had anticipated. Just as he got his cargo on board, and was ready to start, a serious damage had been discovered in the Trevelyan, and he had been compelled to send her into dock for repairs. Although the delay meant a considerable loss of money to him, Captain Norris did not regret it. He did not feel easy, in common with many of the residents, with regard to the safety of the island; and to leave Lizzie in possible danger, surrounded by a horde of mutinous coolies, and without the possibility of obtaining news of her for months together, would have been a sore trial to him. He would have taken her with him gladly as his wife, or as an ordinary passenger, but he knew her character too well to propose it. Had she been affianced to him, and danger threatened her benefactor and his family, she would have died with them, sooner than desert them in the time of uncertainty. And uncertainty seemed to prevail in San Diego. Grave mutterings were heard on every side of averted rebellions and suppressed mutinies, and the planters knew that it needed but the necessary boldness on the part of one set of hands to rise, to set the whole negro population aflame with the lust for rapine and murder. Sir Russell Johnstone was not a favourite amongst them, for he disliked the coloured people, and had passed some very harsh sentences on the prisoners brought up to him for judgment, and his name was seldom mentioned without an execration attached to it. The hands on Beauregard had not shown discontent beyond the ordinary grumblings and small impertinences common amongst the coolies; but Hugh Norris knew the character of the people well, and he distrusted them. He remembered how in former mutinies, both in the East and West Indies, the actual fight for the supremacy had been preceded for a long time by half-suppressed murmurs and complaints, like the muttering of the elements before a tempest, and that, when the storm broke, it came like a clap of thunder, suddenly and unexpectedly, and overwhelmed its victims before they were hardly aware of the danger they incurred. So he was glad than otherwise to be detained in San Diego, though what he heard and saw there did not tend to reassure him. He was present at Maraquita’s wedding, being a friend both of Sir Russell Johnstone and the Courtneys; but he declined the invitation to the breakfast, both because he disliked such festivities, and that Lizzie Fellows, he knew, would not be there. But on the evening of the same day he strolled into her bungalow, and seated himself without ceremony like an old friend.

‘So, Lizzie,’ he commenced, ‘you were not present at the grand wedding this morning?’

‘No. I asked them to excuse me, Captain Norris. My dear father’s recent death renders it very unfit that I should mix in any gaiety.’

‘But your adopted sister’s marriage, Lizzie! Surely that was an occasion on which you might have relaxed your strict seclusion?’

He had marked the coolness which had separated Lizzie of late from Mrs Courtney and her daughter, and he had his own suspicions on the subject; but he had not presumed to put them into words.

‘They didn’t think so. They were quite satisfied to let me follow my own wishes,’ replied the girl quietly.

‘And how is your nurse-child? Thriving?’

Lizzie’s eyes sparkled.

‘Beautifully, thank you. She is growing such a dear little creature, and knows me as well as possible.’

‘Have you had her baptised?’

‘How strange you should ask me that question,’ remarked Lizzie thoughtfully, looking up from her work. ‘It is the very thing I was about to consult you on! How often we seem to have the same ideas at the same moment! I think you must be a wizard, and read my thoughts!’

‘It is because we are so much in sympathy with each other, Lizzie. But what about the mysterious baby? Have you decided on the name you will call her?’

‘No; I have never troubled my head about it. Any name will do.’

‘Oh, poor little lady! let us give her a pretty one whilst we are about it. Why not call her after yourself?’

Lizzie shrank from the idea.

‘Oh, no! She has nothing to do with me. Please suggest something else.’

‘Poor mite! she seems to have nothing to do with any one. She is a little blot upon the universe. But she is God’s own child. Suppose we call her after His mother.’

‘Mary! Yes, I like that idea. What is your mother’s name, Captain Norris?’

‘The same. I was thinking partly of her when I spoke.’

‘Then I shall like the name doubly for her sake. I am sure she must be a good woman, to have borne such a son as you are.’

‘I am afraid that is not much recommendation for her, Lizzie,’ returned Hugh Norris, laughing. ‘But she is a good woman—the best woman I have ever known—for all that. And how she would love you! How I wish you knew her: you would get on so well together.’

‘How can you tell that?’

‘Because you have the same tastes. My mother is quite a doctor in her way; and all the country people believe in her immensely. Only she is a herbalist, and does not approve of strong drugs. Since my father died, and her sons have gone out into the world, she has lived alone in a cottage in the sweetest spot of Kent you have ever seen; and she is beloved of the whole country-side. But I wish there was some one to live with her, now she is getting old. She has never had a daughter, my dear old mother! How she would love and cherish one!’

‘How many brothers have you?’ asked Lizzie, trying to run away from the dangerous subject.

‘Two, George and Frederick. George is in the Indian Army, and has been out in Bengal for the last five years; and Fred is in business in London. He goes down to see mother every now and then; but they are only flying visits, and she must feel very lonely at times.’

‘Yes, very! How often do you see her?’

‘Every few months, as a rule; but my time in England is necessarily short. If I had a wife—’ said Captain Norris, and there stopped.

‘Well,’ remarked Lizzie encouragingly, ‘what then?’

‘I was going to say that (with her permission, of course) I shouldn’t be entirely selfish: I should leave her behind me some voyages, that she might keep my mother company. It wouldn’t be for long, perhaps, for I hope to get work on shore some day—I shouldn’t like to spend all my life roving about like this, without any settled home.’

‘But it must be glorious to sail about all over the world, and see so many new countries!’ cried Lizzie, with kindling eyes.

‘It is, whilst a man is young and independent, and has no ties to pull at his heart-strings. You would enjoy it, Lizzie, I am sure. Your free and energetic spirit would be quite in accord with the unfettered elements, and you would glory in seeing them circumvented (for mastered they can never be) by the ingenuity or prevision of men.’

‘Yes, I should like it, I am sure. It is the sort of life that would carry one out of oneself, and make one almost forget how much falsehood and wickedness and ingratitude hold their place amongst men. To be out on the open sea from morning to night, and to know for certain that no one who has injured or disappointed you can follow you there, and that you are alone with God and your own thoughts—it must be a kind of little heaven in itself, if—if—’

‘If what, Lizzie?’ demanded Hugh Norris eagerly.

‘If one went with the person one loved,’ she replied, with a slight increase of colour.

‘Let us talk of the baby—of little Mary,’ he said impatiently. ‘When shall we have her christened?’

‘Any day, if you will be her godfather, and share the responsibility of her with me.’

‘Willingly. As she is to bear my mother’s name, I consider it incumbent on me to do so. But, Lizzie, have you taken my advice about this child? Have you appealed to her parents to lift the burden they have laid upon you, by at least a partial confession of their error?’

‘I have,’ she answered, in a low voice.

‘And they refused?’

‘I only saw the mother, and she denied all knowledge of her child. The—the—other parent I could not speak to.’

‘You know the names of both of them then.’

She bowed her head in silence.

‘Lizzie, I think I have guessed your secret, or at least part of it. The father of this infant is Henri de Courcelles.’

‘What should make you say that, Captain Norris?’ she exclaimed, in a tone of alarm.

‘The hesitation in your voice when you alluded to him; but I have had my suspicions of it before now. And shall I tell you the name of the mother who has left you to bear the burden of her shameful secret?’

‘No, no, Captain Norris,’ cried Lizzie, springing from her chair; ‘you must not say it! I will not hear it! You are mistaken! It is not true! Oh, my dear friend,’ she continued, laying her hand upon his arm, ‘think—think what you are doing. The honour of a whole family is involved in your discovery. Be silent. Keep the secret sacred, as I do, for God’s sake.’

‘And what about the honour of the woman I love?’ he asked tenderly, as he looked into her face; ‘am I not to think of that?’

‘If you love her,’ replied Lizzie, blushing, ‘you must know that her honour is safe. But for the other—so young—so weak—’

‘So unprincipled—so false, you mean!’ said Hugh Norris indignantly. ‘Well, it will come home to her some day, see if it does not.’

‘But never through my means,’ said Lizzie.

‘No, not through you, my angel, but God will take care of His own. You will not always live under this cloud. You would leave it behind you to-morrow, if you would but consent to be my honoured wife.’

‘Not while it hangs over me,’ she whispered.

‘And afterwards—’

‘Ah, Captain Norris, do not ask me! You are my best and truest friend, and the man who would make me happier than any one else in the world. I quite believe that. I say it after calm deliberation, and a careful investigation of your character. But I am not in a position to marry any one, and I never may be. Leave it to the future. If I am ever free, and you are still of the same mind, I will answer the question you ask me to-day.’

‘And I will live on that promise, Lizzie,’ replied Hugh Norris, ‘for I feel the time of your release is not far off. If you persist in sacrificing yourself for the sake of your oath, your friends are not bound to see you do it, without making an effort in your behalf. But I have something to say to you before I go. Will you be very careful of yourself, for my sake?’

‘In what way?’ she asked, with open eyes. ‘The fever is nearly passed; and if it had not done so, I am fever-proof.’

‘There is a worse pestilence abroad than the fever, Lizzie,—a lust for murder, and rapine, and insubordination. The negroes are ripe for rebellion, and if there should be an insurrection, there may be fire and bloodshed.’

‘Oh, they will never hurt me!’ replied Lizzie, with a confident smile.

‘My dear, when the thirst for blood gets possession of a mob, infuriated by a sense of wrong, they do not stay to distinguish friends from foes. I feel uneasy that you should stay in this bungalow alone, Lizzie, with no better protection than Rosa. It is not safe. Do you bar your doors and windows at night?’

‘Bar my doors and windows?’ repeated Lizzie, with a smile. ‘Why, Captain Norris, they stand open night and day; and I don’t believe there is a fastening to any one of them. The coolies would indeed think I had gone out of my mind, if they saw me bolting myself in from fear of them.’

‘But I don’t like it,’ said Hugh Norris, with a sigh. ‘I have witnessed several mutinies, Lizzie; and if there should be a grudge borne against you by one person only, it may be sufficient to incense the entire mob. Suppose they were to fire your bungalow, and destroy all your property?’

‘Captain Norris, do you really think it is so likely to occur?’ demanded Lizzie, struck by the portentous gravity of her friend.

‘I do indeed, or I should not caution you.’

‘Then they may injure the White House, or do some harm to Mr and Mrs Courtney!’ she exclaimed in alarm. ‘Should you not warn them? They are of far more importance than myself.’

‘I won’t allow that; but Mr Courtney, at least, is aware of the danger. The planters have held a meeting on the subject, with a view to inquiring into the coolies’ fancied wrongs, but not, I understand, with any satisfactory results. In fact, they can’t make out what it is they do want, and I don’t think the darkies know themselves. Only the demons of distrust and discontent are stalking abroad, and it behoves every white man to be extra careful.’

‘Suppose they were to hurt Maraquita,’ suggested Lizzie, with a shudder. ‘She is not a favourite amongst them, poor child, I know.’

‘And will be none the more for having married the Governor; for the coloured population have taken a strong dislike to Sir Russell Johnstone, as the discovered plots against Government House plainly show. However, she will have every protection that the military forces can give her, and you have none. It is of you that I am thinking, Lizzie. I wish I could persuade you to leave this bungalow, and go and stay in the Fort till the danger is over.’

‘Oh, dear no! That is quite impossible. What, run away from my patients, and leave them to die, for fear lest some of the men amongst whom I have grown up might turn against me? Captain Norris, you cannot think what you are asking me. Indeed, I have no fear—not the slightest. These coolies love me—I know they do—and would die for me sooner than harm a hair of my head.’

‘Perhaps so, Lizzie; though I have not much faith in any coloured people. But you have the coolies of other plantations to guard against. They do not confine their attacks to their employers’ property. If the hands on Miners’ Gulch or Sans Souci, or any other estate, were to rise, they might make a raid on Beauregard. Now, do you understand the danger you may be in?’

‘Yes,’ replied Lizzie thoughtfully; ‘I had not considered that. I will ask Mr Courtney if old Peter or William Hall may sleep at the bungalow for the future, though I do not think they will be much protection. But I am not afraid,—indeed I am not.’

‘You are the most courageous woman I have ever met,’ replied Captain Norris. ‘I don’t believe you are afraid of anything.’

‘Except of injuring those who have been good to me,’ she said, somewhat timidly. ‘Captain Norris, there is something on my mind that I feel bound to mention to you. My name is not Fellows, and I don’t know what my real name is.’

‘Are you not the Doctor’s daughter, then?’ he demanded, in surprise.

‘Oh, yes, and though it may astonish you hereafter to remember I said so, I would not give up the knowledge that I am his daughter for all the world. Poor father! He was so unhappy, so unfortunate, so erring. His soul was purified like that of an angel by the suffering he passed through.’

‘Pardon me, Lizzie, but did I hear aright when you said your father was erring?’

‘Yes, Captain Norris, erring beyond the generality of men. I should not have mentioned it to you, except for the kind sentiments you have expressed towards me this evening, and which make me feel that, before they go further, you have a right to know all. The week before he died, my father made a communication to me which I had never heard before, and which he forbade me to repeat during his lifetime. His death has, of course, released me from that duty, and I am sure that he would have wished you, of all men, to be acquainted with the truth. But I am afraid that it will shock you terribly, Captain Norris, to hear that my poor father was a criminal in hiding from the law, and, except for the goodness of Mr Courtney, he would have suffered the penalty of transportation. This was the secret of the great friendship between them, and why my father changed his name, to prevent his retreat from being discovered.’

‘And yet Mr Courtney remained his friend to his life’s end. How good a man your father must have been, Lizzie (but for this youthful error), that his conduct had no power to separate him from the person who knew and loved him best.’

‘Ah, that is how I look at it!’ cried Lizzie, seizing his hand, and bursting into tears; ‘but I hardly expected to hear so generous a judgment from your lips. If suffering, and repentance, and a desire to make amendment, can atone for a man’s sin, I believe my poor father fully expiated his. He was an exile from all his relations, and lived under an assumed name, with no one but myself for a companion, and his profession for occupation. I am not aware if I sprung from the gutter, or came of a decent family. All I know is that I am called Elizabeth Fellows, and that, although guiltless myself, I am not a fit wife for any honest or honourable man.’

‘You shall not speak to me like that,’ exclaimed Hugh Norris indignantly, ‘for it is not true! You are fit, in your own sweet self, to mate with the best man that ever lived; and I consider you as far above me as the stars are above the earth. But I think you should ascertain your real name, and who your relations are. Your father is gone, Lizzie. The discovery can never hurt him now, and there is no saying how much benefit it may prove to you. Cannot Mr Courtney give you the necessary information?’

‘I believe he can, but I have shrunk from asking him. This terrible scandal about me—’

‘Don’t let that prevent you. Be your own brave self, and meet the calumny as it deserves. Take my advice, Lizzie, and demand an explanation from Mr Courtney as soon as possible. Life is uncertain, you know, and he might die before you have ascertained the truth about yourself. Then you might never hear it.’

‘He will be surprised to find me asking questions about which I have shown no curiosity for so many years. He will wonder what can have put it into my head.’

Hugh Norris drew nearer to her, and seized her hand.

‘Say you are engaged to be married to me, and that you consider I have a right to know everything concerning yourself.’

‘But that would not be true.’

‘Make it true, then. It lies with you to do so.’

‘No, Captain Norris,’ she replied gently, withdrawing her hand from his. ‘I cannot—at least just yet. Give me a little time to recover myself. Remember that but a few weeks back I considered myself betrothed to Monsieur de Courcelles.’

‘And you love him still,’ he answered roughly, in his disappointment.

‘No, no, I do not! I despise him for his falsehood and treachery, and for his despicable conduct in trying to evade the consequences of his own fault, at the expense of the character of the woman he once professed to love. If there were not another man in all the world, I would never place myself again under the yoke of Henri de Courcelles. But to engage myself so soon to you—it would be hardly decent.’

‘Have your own way then,’ replied Hugh Norris, as he rose from his seat, and took his cap in his hand. ‘I have asked you for the third time, and failed. I shall begin to disbelieve in my good luck. It evidently doesn’t lie in an uneven number.’

‘There are such slight intervals between your askings,’ said Lizzie, laughing. But she ceased to laugh when she found herself alone.

The honest, disinterested love of Hugh Norris was beginning to work its way into her heart, and heal the wounds made by the other’s defalcation. She would have liked to call him back and tell him that she would follow the dictates of her feelings, and give him his answer at once, without any regard to the dictum of the world; but womanly pride prevented her doing so. She was terribly afraid, also, of being deceived a second time. The scalded dog fears cold water, and though her sense told her that Hugh Norris’s character and disposition were utterly different from those of Henri de Courcelles, she dreaded making another mistake, and finding out, when too late, that they were unsuited to each other. His summary departure had the effect, however, of causing her a sleepless night, and as soon as the sun was up the following morning, she found her way to Mr Courtney’s office.

‘Well, Lizzie,’ said the planter kindly, ‘and so you wouldn’t join our festivities yesterday. It was a grand sight, though, and you would have enjoyed it; and I missed you several times during the breakfast, I can tell you.’

‘You have always been too kind to me, Mr Courtney; but you know my reasons for not being with you. No one wishes Quita health and happiness more than I do, and every sort of prosperity; but I was better at home. Besides, I don’t think I could have come, under any circumstances,’ continued Lizzie, smiling, ‘for do you know we had two new arrivals on the plantation yesterday? Chloe, the mulatto, and Aunt Jane, William Hall’s wife, both had daughters during the forenoon, and both are determined to call them “Maraquita,” in honour of the wedding. I did laugh so to see the two black woolly-headed little Maraquitas; but the proud mothers saw nothing incongruous in the idea.’

‘Naturally,’ replied Mr Courtney, joining in the smile. ‘And what is the plantation health report to-day?’

‘Very good! I have only two cases of fever left, and they are both convalescent. The negro boy, Dickey, broke his arm whilst climbing trees to see the fireworks last night—but it’s a simple fracture; and I have a few children down with infantile cholera, but nothing dangerous.’

‘That’s well. And can I do anything for you, Lizzie? Any orders wanted for medicines, or other necessaries?’

‘No, sir; I have everything I require. But I came up this morning chiefly to ask you a favour, Mr Courtney. I want you to tell me everything you may know concerning my father and his family.’

The planter pushed his chair back, and regarded her with surprise.

‘About your father’s family?’ he echoed. ‘But why should you imagine that I know more than yourself?’

‘Oh, you need attempt no concealment with me, sir. I appreciate the generosity of your motive, but my father himself has rendered it unnecessary. A few days before he was taken from us, he related to me the history of his life, and the reason why he lived a pensioner on your goodness at Beauregard, instead of taking his place in the world and society, like other men. Also that he passed under an assumed name, from fear of the law; but he did not tell me what my real name is, and I wish to know.’

‘But to what purpose, Lizzie? What good will it do?’

‘I have not even thought of that, sir; but if it brought evil in its train, I should still ask for the information. For since my father told me that Fellows is not my own name, I seem to have lost my individuality, and to be some one else. When I hear it spoken, I don’t feel as if I had the right to answer; and in fact, Mr Courtney, I beg of you to satisfy my curiosity in this particular.’

‘Well, Lizzie, you are a woman, and if you have made up your mind on this subject, you shall be gratified; but I would ask you to think again first. I don’t believe the information will make you happier. What is the use of belonging to a family who will not own you? Your poor father’s relations all turned against him, and will do the same by his daughter. It was that they might never have the power to insult him again, that he took the name of Fellows.’

‘So he told me, sir; and also of the crime he committed against you, and of the generosity with which you forgave it. I feel (and I told him so) that after that, my life and all I hold dearest in the world should be at your disposal; and I will sink my personality in the future, as I have done in the past, if you wish me to do so.’

‘No, no! my dear girl, I don’t consider I have any right to dictate to you on the subject; and since you desire to know your name, I will tell it you. You are Elizabeth Ruthin, the granddaughter of General Sir William and Lady Ruthin of Aberdare in Scotland. Your dear father’s name was Herbert Ruthin. He was the second son, the eldest, I believe, is in the army. He has already told you (you say) of the sad event which brought us together. He was my dearest friend in youth, and to the day of his death; but he was extravagant and thoughtless, and hardly thought of the gravity of the act he was committing.’

‘That is your kind way of putting it,’ said Lizzie. ‘My father did not exonerate himself after that fashion, sir. He saw his fault in its true light. But my mother’s name—what was that?’

‘Alice Stevens. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and a very sweet woman, I believe; but she died so early, that I saw but little of her. Have you any more questions to ask me, Lizzie?’

‘Only, have you any papers to prove what you tell me, Mr Courtney?’

‘What a practical young woman you are. Yes, I have. I loved your dear father with almost a romantic attachment, and I have kept all the letters that passed between us as young men, that is, when he was practically living at home on Sir William Ruthin’s estate of Aberdare, but going backward and forward to pursue his studies at Edinburgh. His frequent mention of his home life, and every one connected with it, is sufficient proof of his identity.’

‘And may I have those letters, sir?’

‘Certainly, if you wish it; and, now I come to think of it, they should be in your possession, in case of anything happening unexpectedly to me.’

Mr Courtney rose as he spoke, and unlocking an iron safe, placed a packet of letters, endorsed ‘Correspondence with my friend H. Ruthin,’ in her hand.

‘And now, Lizzie, what will you do with them?’ he added. ‘Shall you go post-haste to England by the next steamer, and lay claim to your father’s property?’

‘Oh, sir, don’t laugh at me! Remember that a felon’s daughter has no rights.’

‘Lizzie, you shall not use that term of your late father in my presence!’

‘It is what he called himself, sir,—what, doubtless, his people call him to this day, if ever they mention his name. Are my grandparents living, Mr Courtney?’

‘I believe so, my dear, and a very nice couple they were, though I have heard this trouble was an awful blow to their pride. Scotch pride too. There’s nothing like it. But Lady Ruthin loved her son Herbert dearly in the olden days. I wonder if she ever mourns for him now?’

‘Can time wear out a mother’s love?’ said Lizzie. ‘And my poor father was so loveable and affectionate. I cannot believe sometimes that he was capable of so base a sin as ingratitude.’

‘Don’t believe it, my dear! It is all over and past now. Think only of him as one of God’s regenerated children. And if he erred in that respect, his mantle has not fallen on his daughter, for you have repaid any kindnesses we may have shown you, twofold.’

‘I have tried to do so,’ replied Lizzie, in a faltering voice, as, with the packet of letters in her hand, she passed quickly from the office on her way home.

CHAPTER III.

A FEW days later, Hugh Norris rushed unexpectedly into Lizzie’s presence.

‘I have come to wish you good-bye!’ he exclaimed, in a voice of distress. ‘I have received orders this morning which compel me to sail at once; and as the Trevelyan’s repairs are complete, I have no possible excuse for disobedience.’

Lizzie changed colour slightly as she heard the news, but she answered quietly,—

‘And I am sure that, under any circumstances, you would make none. Have you not often told me that a sailor’s first duty is towards his ship?’

‘Ah, yes; that is all very well in theory,’ he said, with a rueful look, ‘but you cannot know what I feel at leaving you alone, Lizzie, at this anxious time.’

‘I shall be safe enough, my dear friend, so have no fears for me. When do you sail?’

‘With the tide this evening, and hardly know how I shall get through all my work by that time. I didn’t expect to get off for another week.’

‘Then I mustn’t detain you, Captain Norris; though it was good of you to think of me at the last.’

‘Of whom else should I think? I shall not be away long this time, Lizzie. I only go to England and back. A couple of months may see me here again. What can I do for you there?’

‘Nothing, thanks. I have no commissions for you.’

‘Have you spoken to Mr Courtney yet on the subject of your family?’

Lizzie started.

‘Oh, yes; and that reminds me that I have some letters I want to show you. Wait a moment Captain Norris, whilst I fetch them—’

‘Missy Liz! Missy Liz!’ piped a shrill little voice at the open door.

‘What is it, Pete?’ she asked of a negro boy, whose dusky face was anxiously peering in upon them.

‘Oh, Missy Liz, please come quick to Mammy Chloe’s baby! That’s kinder sick; taken drefful, with its eyes turned up so, and its body quite stiff like a piece of wood!’

‘Convulsions!’ exclaimed Lizzie, as she threw the packet of letters she had just taken from her desk across the table, and put her hat upon her head. ‘Captain Norris, I must go. Read those whilst I am gone.’

‘But I cannot stay till you come back, Lizzie. Each moment is precious to me. Give me five minutes more.’

‘I dare not. This is a new-born infant, and a matter of life and death. God bless you, and good-bye!’

He had only time to wring her hand, when she darted from the house. He watched her figure running swiftly towards the negroes’ quarters, and then returned to the shaded apartment, with a deep sigh. What interest had he then in the packet of letters she had left him to peruse? Lizzie was gone. He should not see her again, perhaps for months, and the world seemed to be a blank without her. In the hope of her speedy return, he sat down for a few minutes more, and mechanically drew the letters towards him. But as his eye fell upon the written words his countenance changed, and his expression became one of the deepest interest. He hastily scanned through the letters, making sundry notes as he did so, and then, with a long low whistle, he tied the envelopes together again, and, laying them upon Lizzie’s desk, walked to the window to watch for some token of her return. None came. The Indian sun was blazing in all its splendour on the tropical leaves and flowers, the pathway to the coolies’ huts was one long line of white dust glittering like golden sand; but not a sound could be heard but the far-off hum of the workers in the cotton fields, not a living creature to be seen but Rosa in the shaded verandah, with Maraquita’s child slumbering on her knees, and an aged negro, long past work, who was warming his stiffened limbs in the sunshine. Hugh Norris watched impatiently for a few minutes from the open door, and then, with a rapid glance at his watch, and a deep sigh, he unwillingly prepared to leave the bungalow.

‘Be a good girl to your mistress, Rosa,’ he said, as he passed the yellow girl; ‘take great care of her and the baby, and I’ll bring you a beautiful string of beads when I come back from England.’

‘Tank you, sar,’ replied Rosa. ‘I’ll be berry good all time you away; and I’d like a nice shawl too, sar.’

‘Well, you’re not bashful, Rosa,’ replied Hugh Norris, laughing; ‘but you shall have the shawl too, if you’ll keep your promise. And if there should be any trouble on the plantation—you know what I mean—take Missy Lizzie up to the White House at once, and don’t mind what she says about staying here.’

‘I understand, sar; but nebber you fear. De niggers on dis plantation too good for dat. They lub Massa and Missus Courtney; and as for Missy Liz, they die for her—dat’s jes’ so.’

Captain Norris gave a sigh of relief.

‘I hope so, Rosa, and it makes me happier to hear you say it; but still I am not easy. But take this and buy yourself a new gown; and remember, when you wear it, that you have promised me to be faithful.’

He thrust a five-dollar note into her hand as he spoke, and with one yearning look in the direction of the negro quarters, walked rapidly away towards the town. Rosa rolled her eyes with delight at the feel of the five-dollar note.

‘He gone ’coon too,’ she thought, with a sapient air; ‘dar’s another what Missy Liz have done for. And she’s so quiet all de time. Dat’s what beats me. ’Pears as if she didn’t care if they was “gone” or not. Wall, if dey all gib me five-dollar notes, I wish there was a thousand of them.’

Meanwhile, Lizzie was kneeling down beside Mammy Chloe’s straw mattress, putting the poor little black baby into hot baths, and watching by it as tenderly as if it had been a princess of the blood royal, until the attack of convulsions had ceased, and it was sleeping peacefully on its mother’s breast again.

‘Dar now, dat’s jes’ wonderful!’ exclaimed the crowd of dusky mortals, who had anxiously watched her proceedings, ‘dat babby jes’ dyin’, ’pears as though death was in its face, and its body cold and stiff a’ready, and Missy Liz comes ’long and touches it, and it’s as well as ever in half an hour. Missy Liz, you too clever! You like de Lord, Who touches with little finger, and ebberybody well again. You jes’ white angel, Missy Liz—no mistake about dat.’

‘My dear friends, you make too much of my poor services for you. You could all do nearly as much for yourselves, if you would only let me teach you. Mammy Chloe made her baby sick. She says she gave it some sweet potato yesterday.’

‘Only tiny leetel bit, Missy Liz, out ob my own mouth!’ cried the mother.

‘However little it was, Chloe, it was too much for a baby of three days old. How often must I tell you to give your little infants nothing but the breast? Your baby is safe again now, but if you feed her with potatoes, and rice, and bread, she will have another fit, and next time I may be able to do nothing for her.’

Hereupon rose a chorus of dissentient voices.

‘Oh, Missy Liz, how you saying dat? You can cure ebberyting, Missy Liz. You mended Dicky’s arm, and cured old Jake’s rheumatiz, and bringed de life back to Clairey, when she fell into de water, and was dead.’

‘No, no!’ disclaimed Lizzie, laughing, ‘she wasn’t dead, Betsy. I can’t go as far as to bring the dead to life again.’

‘B’lieve you could, Missy Liz, if you tried, for you’se jes’ wonderful all round; and de niggers nebber had a better friend—dat’s so.’

‘Ay, Massa Courcelles say dat last night, Auntie Bell. He say Massa Courtney and de other planters dam bad trash, and better out ob de way; but nobody must hurt Missy Liz, because she’s de niggers’ friend, and lub ’em jes’ like herself.’

‘Monsieur de Courcelles!’ echoed Lizzie, thinking the negress had made some mistake. ‘How could he have said that last night? He is not in San Diego.’

‘Massa Courcelles not in San Diego?’ repeated the shrill voice of Betsy. ‘Oh, Missy Liz, who tell you dat ar lie? Massa Courcelles nebber leave de plantation yet. He’s living up at old Josh’s shanty, t’other side of de avenue, and he comes along of evenings, and talks to us all of our troubles.’

Lizzie’s brow flushed darkly. What could be the meaning of Henri de Courcelles hiding himself on Beauregard? For what reason was he hanging about the plantation, and mixing familiarly with the people whom he professed to abhor?

‘And what troubles have you that you can confide to a gentleman’s ears, Betsy?’ she demanded reprovingly. ‘Monsieur de Courcelles was not so kind to you whilst he was your overseer, that you should expect to find a friend in him now. There is some deeper meaning, I am afraid, in his pretended interest in you, than that of making your life more comfortable.’

‘You may well say that, Miss Lizzie!’ cried Jerusha, who was standing in the crowd, with her baby in her arms. ‘Dat man nebber sorry for nobody but himself. What he care if our work is hard, or our backs ache wid de sun, or our huts is dark, or de food common? Did he care when my back was bowed wid pain, and my head wid shame, and I couldn’t hardly stand upon my legs? Didn’t he strike me and my poor leetle boy, and say, “D—n you! Go hell! I make you work like a dog”?’

‘Hush, hush, Jerusha!’ exclaimed Lizzie, as she rose and placed her hand kindly on the shoulder of the excited coolie. ‘I know you have had your troubles, my poor girl. I know Monsieur de Courcelles has wronged you terribly, but you must try to be patient, and forgive, as—as—we all have to do sometimes.’

But Jerusha shook the compassionating touch off her.

‘No, Missy Liz,’ she said loudly, ‘I can’t forgive. If he had given me one kind word, I’se have worked for him to my last day, and been glad only to see him well and happy; but he’s bad all through, to de very core. He wrong more dan me. Ah, I know plenty tings people not thinking! and now he come and ’cite dese niggers to revenge demselves, and send all de planters out of de island, and keep de fields for dere own use. Dat his way of “paying out” somebody, Missy Liz. But I know him and his dark ways, and if dese people rise ’gainst de planters, Massa Courcelles shall be de first to go, if I kill him with my own hand.’

‘Rise!’ cried Lizzie indignantly. ‘Surely, after all the kindness they have experienced from Mr and Mrs Courtney, there is no one on this plantation so wicked as to dream of rising. What should they do it for? What more can they desire than they already possess? There are no hands on the island more looked after and cared for than those on Beauregard.’

‘I dunno dat,’ chimed in a discontented voice. ‘San Souci niggers gets a tot of rum ebery night, and a quarter of a pound more meat than we do.’

‘Who said that?’ exclaimed Lizzie quickly, turning round. ‘Ah, it was you, Aunt Sally! That’s a nice grateful thing to say, when you were down with fever three weeks this year, and received your wages all the same, though you couldn’t do a stroke of work. That’s the best return you can make, is it? And you know why the San Souci hands get extra rations well enough,—because the plantation is so near the swamp, and so unhealthy in consequence, that they are half their time down with fever and ague. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to set such a bad example to the others.’

‘I only repeating what Massa Courcelles say,’ replied Aunt Sally sulkily.

‘Then Monsieur de Courcelles should be ashamed of himself. I have no hesitation in saying it,’ continued Lizzie warmly. ‘I have been brought up amongst you all since I was a little child, and I am a witness to the kind and indulgent treatment you have received from your employers. Mr Courtney has never spared money or trouble to make his hands comfortable and happy, and if you have ever had any cause of complaint, it has been against this very man who is inciting you now to feel rebellious and ungrateful!’

‘De oberseer only act on de Massa’s orders,’ grumbled Aunt Sally again.

‘It is not true!’ cried Lizzie indignantly. ‘Mr Courtney never ordered Monsieur de Courcelles to do anything that was cruel or unjust. He left a great deal of power in his hands, because he believed him to be a good man, and worthy of his trust; but he found out his mistake, and that is why he has been sent away.’

‘Missy Liz speaks God’s truth,’ exclaimed Jerusha, ‘and you niggers know she do! What hasn’t dat man done to us? Didn’t he starve old Jakes for three days ’cause he not clean horse proper? and didn’t he strike Aunt Hannah ’cross de face with his whip, and make de ’sypelas come out? Didn’t he take me up to his bungalow, and tell me I lib dere all my life, and den kick me out like a dog ’cause I got a poor leetel baby? Haven’t you niggers said, times out of mind, you’d like to kill him for all he done, and that it was only ’cause Missy Liz like him dat he wasn’t dead long ago? If you says “No” now, den you’se all liars, and a lot of trash dat is afraid to stick to your own words.’

‘Jerusha is right,’ said Lizzie. ‘You were all afraid of Monsieur de Courcelles, and spoke against him, whilst he was your overseer; but now that he has no authority over you, you allow his specious tongue to lead your minds astray. My dear friends, be warned in time. Monsieur de Courcelles has no right to be on this plantation at all, and he only comes here for a bad purpose. You mustn’t listen to him. I am sorry to say it before you, but he is not a good man. I loved him once very dearly,’ continued Lizzie, with a great effort, and her cheeks dyed crimson, ‘and believed him to be all that was upright and honourable, but I found out I was wrong, as you will find out you are wrong, when it may be too late. Do you know that I have but to go to Mr Courtney, and inform him of the mutinous ideas you are openly expressing, to have you put into prison? And the new Governor is very strict, as you may have heard, and makes an example of all rebels. He is determined to crush the feeling of mutiny out of San Diego, whatever it may cost.’

‘Perhaps Gubnor get crushed hisself,’ suggested Betsy sullenly.

‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ cried Lizzie sharply. ‘What could a handful of coloured people do against the military forces? You would all be shot down and killed, before you knew where you were.’

She spoke boldly and decisively, but her heart was sinking all the while. If the negro population of the island rose en masse, the slaughter might be terrible before peace could be restored amongst them. She thought of her benefactors the Courtneys, of poor heedless Maraquita and the kind-hearted Governor,—a little too of herself, and shuddered. And Henri de Courcelles also. Would he not be overwhelmed by the storm he was taking such pains to raise? At all risks, she said to herself, she would see him, and warn him of the danger he ran in turning against his late employers.

‘Which of you has been listening to Monsieur de Courcelles’ inflammatory talk?’ she asked presently, as she looked round upon the women.

‘All of us,’ answered Aunt Sally. ‘He come down to our huts of evenings, and sit dere, and tell us how Massa Courtney treat him wuss den nigger, and how we’se free coloured people, and should stan’ no nonsense.’

‘He is worse than I thought him,’ said Lizzie. ‘He must stop it at once, or I shall inform Mr Courtney, and have him turned off the premises.’

‘Kill him, Missy Liz, kill him!’ hissed Jerusha, between her clenched teeth; ‘dat is de only way to crush de rattlesnake.’

‘Don’t speak like that, Jerusha. It is wicked, and you do not mean it.’

But the Indian girl did mean it all the same.

‘Where did you say that Monsieur de Courcelles was staying, Betsy?’ inquired Lizzie, a few moments after.

‘At Uncle Josh’s shanty, t’other side of avenue. He mayn’t be dere now, Missy Liz, but he sleeps dere ob nights.’

‘If de door would fasten, I’d set fire to dat rotten shanty, before anoder moon,’ remarked Jerusha.

‘Well, I must leave you now,’ said the Doctor’s daughter, with a deep sigh; ‘but remember what I say. The next time I hear any talk like this of to-day, I shall go straight to Mr Courtney, and ask him to dismiss the whole lot of you. Then you will starve without any work to do, and will be sorry you left your comfortable huts, and kind employers, at the instigation of a villain.’

‘Massa Courtney starve too when he got no coolies to pick cotton and rice for him,’ muttered some one in the crowd.

Lizzie saw plainly that the disaffection had spread too effectually to be quenched by her single arguments, and so she left them, and, wrapped in thought, walked leisurely away from the coolie quarters. Her first step, she felt, must be to see Henri de Courcelles, and with that intention she directed her feet towards Uncle Josh’s shanty, which stood somewhat apart from the rest. The sun was now high in the heavens, and no European was abroad who could rest at home. Lizzie’s broad-brimmed hat and white umbrella sheltered her sufficiently in the shady plantation, but she would not have ventured out, except at the call of duty, at so late an hour in the morning, and so she firmly calculated on finding Monsieur de Courcelles within the hut. She was not disappointed. Old Uncle Josh, who was an aged negro almost past work, and only kept to do light jobs about the garden and stables, came to the door with much caution to answer Lizzie’s knock for admittance, and was about to declare that he knew nothing of Monsieur de Courcelles, when a voice from within called out to him to admit the lady, and not make a d—d fool of himself. So Lizzie passed in, and found herself face to face with the man she had believed to be hundreds of miles away.

‘Monsieur,’ she commenced hurriedly, ‘I should not be here, except that I have something of the utmost importance to say to you. You must send this man away, so that he may not hear us.’

‘Go up to the plantation, Uncle Josh, or anywhere you like, and don’t come back for an hour,’ said De Courcelles, in a voice of authority; and the old negro nodded in acquiescence, and shambled off.

‘Are you sure he is safe?’ demanded Lizzie, as the man disappeared.

‘Safe as death! I have him under my thumb,’ was the confident reply. ‘And now, what can you have to say to me, Lizzie? After our last parting, I hardly expected you would seek me out of your own accord.’

‘Neither should I have done so, except that the welfare of those I love more than myself is at stake. Monsieur, why are you still on the plantation of Beauregard?’

‘I think that is my business sooner than yours.’

‘Indeed it is my business,—the business of every one who regards the Courtneys as benefactors. Your presence here can be for no good purpose. It spells ruin and devastation for them. By your false arguments you are inciting these ignorant coloured people to rebel; you are making them discontented—not to say bloodthirsty; and the upshot of your evil counsel will be a mutiny, that will involve their own downfall with those of their employers, and, perhaps, lead to murder and rapine.’

‘And what do I care if it does? It will be no more than they deserve.’

‘Oh, Henri, you cannot think what you are saying! Surely you would never be so wicked! What have the Courtneys done to make you so revengeful? They were always the kindest of patrons to you, until this unhappy business occurred with Maraquita. And even to the last they were both just and generous. How can you find it in your heart to injure them?’

‘They are Maraquita’s parents,’ he answered gloomily.

‘And would you avenge her falsehood—her broken faith—upon them? Monsieur, that is not like yourself! It is unworthy of any one calling himself a man.’

‘What right had they to turn me off Beauregard, then? It was only done to shield her, because they suspect the truth, and are afraid I might prove a dangerous rival. She marries the Governor of San Diego, and is lapped in luxury and comfort, whilst I (who am morally her husband) am sent adrift, like a rudderless boat, to toss anywhere on the sea of life. But I’ll be even with her yet, and her bald-headed old ape of a partner too.’

‘Henri, you must not speak like that,’ said Lizzie firmly. ‘I feel for your disappointment—indeed I do; it must be a bitterly hard one; but to try and revenge yourself in this manner is a cowardly and wicked thing. The feeling of disaffection is rife enough in the island, without your adding to it. I beg—I pray of you to leave the plantation, and not return. You have no right here, and if you remain, I shall consider it my duty to inform Mr Courtney; and you know how painful it would be for me to say anything to him against you. Henri, for the sake of old times, do as I ask you.’

‘You are a good woman, Lizzie—I have always maintained that—and, if you wish it, I will go. But, mind you, my departure will not stop the rising mutiny, any more than my remaining here hatched it into life. The native population is ripe for rebellion, and it is only now a question of weeks—perhaps days—before they burst into open revolt. I am glad I have seen you, to warn you against it. The coolies will not harm you, I am sure—they love and reverence you too much—but they may frighten you, and I should wish to prevent even that. But as for the rest—well! I shall not be satisfied till I see the White House and Government House in ashes, and their owners weltering in their blood!’

The expression of his face was so murderous as he spoke, that Lizzie fairly screamed,—

‘Oh, Henri, Henri, surely you are not in earnest! You would never countenance nor encourage so horrible an idea! You would save those who have been good to you—whom you once believed you loved—at the risk of your own life! Tell me it is the truth, for I will never leave you till you acknowledge it.’

Henri de Courcelles seized her two hands in a grip of iron, and drew her towards him, until their faces nearly touched each other.

‘Lizzie Fellows,’ he exclaimed roughly, to hide his emotion, ‘if I could have gone on loving you, if that heartless jade had not come between us with her mock innocence and her fatal beauty and blinded my eyes to your superior virtues, I should have been a happier and better man to-day. But now, I know it is too late. You have ceased to love me, and I shall never again be able to lay any claim to your hand.’

‘But I have not ceased to care if you are a good man or a bad one, Henri,’ she answered, through her tears; ‘and I entreat you now, by your memory of the past, to do what I ask you, and leave Beauregard.’

‘I will, because you ask me; but, as I have already told you, it will not make the difference you imagine. I could no more stay the progress of this mutiny now, than I could single-handed quench the fire of a burning city. It has gone too far for that. Besides, I have no desire to do so. My heart thirsts for revenge, and I shall only quit Beauregard to join another set of rebels, and perhaps a more dangerous one.’

‘Henri, cannot I persuade you to give up that madness also?’

‘No, Lizzie, the time is past. Maraquita’s falsehood has made me reckless, and I only live now to one end,—to see her punished as she deserves.’

‘Leave her to Heaven, Henri. Do you think her infidelity will not be its own punishment? How many nights will she lie awake, poor child, wanting your love, wanting mine, which used, at one time, to make all her happiness? How often will her heart yearn—for Quita has a heart, Henri, though it is choked up with vanity and love of self—for the days she spent with us,—for the poor little innocent she has left behind her? Ah, neither you nor I can measure the pain which remorse will bring her!’

‘Don’t you believe it. You judge her by yourself, and your sex is the only likeness between you. She is all bad, Lizzie, false from head to foot, and the sooner the world is rid of her, the better.’

‘And are you the one who should be her judge?’ replied Lizzie mournfully; ‘can you bring clean hands into court, Henri, with which to condemn her? No, I am not alluding to myself. It was not your fault, perhaps, if you found upon a closer acquaintance that you could not love me as you once imagined; but what of Jerusha—the poor little coolie girl with whom you were carrying on a pretension of affection at the same time that you were deceiving Maraquita? How can you find it in your heart to contemplate revenge on her for an error of which you were guilty yourself?’

‘You women don’t understand these things, Lizzie. No one but a little fool like Jerusha would have believed for a moment that I was in earnest, or that such an irregular business could possibly last more than a few months.’

‘Yet Jerusha vows to have her revenge on you, as warmly as you do to have yours on Maraquita.’

At this piece of intelligence, Henri de Courcelles changed colour.

‘If that is the case, your advice has not come too soon. These coolies are the very devil to stick to an idea if they once get it in their head, and I shall wake up some night, perhaps, to find Miss Jerusha’s fingers at my throat, if I don’t clear out. Curse the little jade! She’s been more trouble to me than she’s worth.’

A crown of shame, volume 3 (of 3)

A CROWN OF SHAME.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.