‘I don’t know—I don’t want to know—don’t ask me!’ cried Liz Fellows, as she turned quickly away. ‘Only remember father’s message, “Silence and secrecy,”’ and with that she ran quickly down the uneven rocky path again.
The loose stones rolled away from under her feet, and hurt them in her rapid descent, but she cared nothing at that moment for pain or inconvenience. All her desire was to get out of sight and out of hearing, and forget if possible the horrid task that had been imposed upon her. Maraquita—whom she had known from babyhood, and believed to be so innocent and pure, to have subjected herself to this penalty of shame. It seemed too awful and incredible a thought to be dwelt upon. Liz remembered, as she ran hurriedly homewards, how she had blamed poor heedless Rosa for the same fault,—how sternly she had reproved the ignorant yellow girl, who knew no better than to follow the instincts of her fallen nature, for her depravity, and told her she ought to have had more principle, and a better sense of right and wrong, than to yield to such a temptation. But Maraquita, so much beloved, so tenderly watched, so closely guarded, how could she have so deceived her friends and lowered herself; and who could have been so base as to lead her astray? This discovery, terribly as it affected Liz, cleared her lover’s character at once in her eyes; and even in the midst of her pain, she could not help breathing a sigh of thankfulness to think that Henri de Courcelles was innocent of the charge imputed to him. He could never have been flirting with the planter’s daughter whilst she had conceived a serious affection for some one else. Liz recalled the fervour of his oath with secret satisfaction; it was no wonder indeed that he felt justified in taking it, and she felt ashamed of the jealous spirit that had forced it from him.
But her thoughts soon reverted to her adopted sister, and she burned with resentment against her unknown betrayer. Her vow to Dr Fellows—which she felt to be as sacred as though uttered before God’s throne; the revelation which had been made to her that evening of their own disgrace; pity for her friend’s misfortune, and love for Henri de Courcelles, were all warring in her breast, and making her mind a chaos, as, wearied and panting, she stumbled over the threshold of her father’s bungalow. She expected to find him alone with Quita,—to be able to tell him of her hopes and fears,—but, to her consternation, the room was full, and as she paused in the open doorway, her white and anxious face made her look like a guilty person. Mr and Mrs Courtney, with the old black nurse Jessica, were all there, and Dr Fellows was talking earnestly to them. As he caught sight of his daughter, he turned to meet her.
‘You know all,’ he whispered sternly, as he looked into her sad eyes, and squeezed her hand as in a vice. ‘Remember your oath.’
‘Why, is that Lizzie?’ exclaimed Mrs Courtney from the sofa, where she lay extended. ‘I thought she was nursing our poor Quita. Whatever has she been doing out of doors at this time of night?’
‘She has been to fetch me some necessary drugs,’ replied the Doctor quickly.
Mrs Courtney had been a beautiful creature in her youth, but though not forty years of age, she had already lost all pretensions to good looks. She was corpulent and ungainly. Her large sleepy black eyes were sunk in a round face, with a yellow complexion, and triple chins. Her waving black hair was twisted untidily at the back of her head, and her abundant figure, unrestrained by belt or corset, was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown. But she rolled off the sofa nimbly enough when she heard the voice of Liz Fellows.
‘Oh, Liz!’ she exclaimed, grasping her hand, ‘this is terrible news the Doctor has to give us; our darling Quita down with the fever. Fancy the dear child rambling to your house in her delirium! What a mercy she had sufficient sense left to guide her. She might have walked into the river. You may fancy what we felt when we heard that she was gone. Jessica found it out first when she went into her room with some iced sherbet, for Quita has been very restless at night lately. I suppose it was this horrid fever coming on, but she has been quite out of sorts for some weeks past. But oh! Lizzie, how can she have caught it?’
This long harangue had given Lizzie an opportunity to recover her equanimity, and she was able to reply quite calmly,—
‘It is quite impossible to say, dear Mrs Courtney; but father does not think seriously of the case, and so you must not be too anxious about her.’