CHAPTER II.
BEFORE she turned her head to greet him, Liz knew who had entered the bungalow. The marvellous instinct of love made her feel his presence, before she perceived it, and this instinct, common to all human nature, was deeply engrafted in that of Liz Fellows. She had a heart that not only wound itself round that of those she loved but entered into it, and made its home there, and she loved Henri de Courcelles with all the strength and passion of which she was capable. Their attachment had commenced more than a year before, when she and her father had brought De Courcelles through a dangerous illness, and Liz had nursed him into convalescence with the tenderest care, and the young man had rewarded her devotion with a confession of love, which she believed to be as genuine as her own. Before he rose from his bed of sickness Henri de Courcelles had pledged himself to marry Liz Fellows, and at the time perhaps had honestly wished to do so. But there were obstacles in the way of an immediate union, and the engagement had never been publicly announced. Henri de Courcelles was a man whose personal appearance would have proved sufficient justification in most women’s eyes for Liz’s excessive love for him. From his French father he had inherited a strength of limb and muscle, and a symmetry of proportion, which is not common amongst tropical nations, whilst his beautiful Creole mother had given him her Spanish eyes and colouring, with a little trace—though too slight to be offensive—of her African blood. Taken altogether, Henri de Courcelles was a very handsome and athletic young fellow, and with an easy grace about his bearing and mode of expressing himself that made him very fascinating. That his visits to her father’s bungalow had been shorter and less frequent of late had never struck Liz as remarkable until Captain Norris had drawn her attention to the probable reason.
She was not of a jealous temperament, and where we love and fear to lose, we will hatch up any excuse to lull our doubts to rest, sooner than wrong the creature on whom all our hopes are fixed. Besides, Liz was too busy a woman to spend her days sighing over an absent lover. When she was not mixing and dispensing medicines, or visiting her patients, or reading the medical works recommended by her father, she had her household affairs to look after, or needlework to do, and oftener longed for more time than for less. And De Courcelles was a busy man also. She would hardly have liked him if he had not been so. He was overseer on the coffee plantation of the rich planter Mr Courtney, on whose estate Dr Fellows lived, and had the complete control and surveillance of the negro population. It made Liz’s heart grieve sometimes to hear the coolies complain of his harshness and severity. She did not believe in her heart that Henri could be unjust to any one and thought the negroes only wished to escape the punishments they had incurred—still she could not help wishing, with a sigh, that he had the power to control them without punishment. But of course he could not be in the wrong—not entirely, that is to say. As she recognised his footstep on the present occasion, and all the painful doubt she was experiencing fled like magic before the pleasure of his presence, any one with a knowledge of physiognomy could have read how the woman loved him. Her pale face flushed with expectation—her quiet eyes glowed with fire—her whole frame trembled in acknowledgment of the man’s supremacy over her. But as he advanced to the centre of the room and she could discern his features, Liz started with concern.
‘Henri! what is the matter? Are you ill?’
‘Ill! No,’ he answered pettishly, as he flung himself into a chair. ‘You are so mixed up with your pills and potions, Liz, that you can never imagine any other cause for a man’s moods than illness. I’m right enough. What should ail me?’
‘Ah! this dreadful fever, Henri. Forgive me if I am nervous for the safety of you and all whom I love. It strikes down its victims like a plague, and its terrible rapidity frightens me. It makes one feel so helpless. Sometimes it takes but a few hours to carry off its victims. I have been at three deathbeds to-day. It is enough to make a woman tremble at the least symptom of illness in her own people. And the epidemic seems to be on the increase. Nothing that my father does seems to stop it.’
‘Well, try and find some livelier topic of conversation, Liz, for mercy’s sake. It’s enough to give any fellow the blues to hear you talk. I wish to goodness you followed some other calling, or rather none at all; but since it is unavoidable, spare me the nauseous details. I have enough worries of my own without discussing your professional difficulties.’