THE overseer of Beauregard occupied another bungalow on the plantation, a perfect bower of beauty, which, whilst lying close to the White House, was entirely concealed from observation by the glorious foliage that environed it. Its wooden walls were clothed in creepers, and surrounded by tall cocoa palms, and feathery bamboos and orange trees, with their double wealth of fruit and flower. The heavy perfumes by which the atmosphere was laden would have proved too much for any one but a man acclimatised to the West Indies, but they suited the sensuous, pleasure-loving nature of Henri de Courcelles perfectly. As he sat, or rather reclined, on a long bamboo lounge in his verandah, with a cigar between his lips, and his handsome eyes half closed, he looked the picture of lazy content. He was dressed in full white trousers, and a linen shirt, thrown open at the throat, round which a crimson silk neckerchief was carelessly knotted. His dark curling hair was thrown off his brow, and his olive complexion was flushed with the mid-day heat. His work was over for the time being, and he was free to rest and enjoy himself until the sun went down. He had been on horseback by six o’clock that morning, riding round the coffee and sugar plantations, keeping the coolies up to their work, and receiving the complaints of, or distributing his orders amongst, the men who worked under him. The labourers on Beauregard had long come to the conclusion that it was lost time to prefer any request out of the ordinary routine to Henri de Courcelles. Charming as he was when in the society of his equals, he was a stern and implacable overseer, being quick to find fault, and slow to extend forgiveness, and having no sympathy whatever with the people he ruled over. He looked upon the negroes as so many brute beasts out of which it was his duty to get as much work as possible, and he had often turned away with disgust on encountering Lizzie Fellows with a dusky baby on her lap, or with her arm beneath the head of a dying negress. He did not give vent to his opinions in public. It would scarcely have been safe, surrounded as he was by the creatures he despised, and often at their mercy; but they knew them, all the same, and were ripe to seize the first opportunity for revenge. Liz—with her calm practical brain, and reflective mind, should have seen for herself that a man who could swear at an unoffending coolie, or thrust a little child roughly from his path, or strike his horse between the ears with his hunting crop, for no reason except to gratify a passing temper, would never make a kind husband or father. But the ancients never did a wiser thing than to pourtray love as blind. It blinds the cleverest of us to mental as well as physical defects, until some fatal day, the rose-coloured glasses drop from our eyes, and we see the man, or woman, love has idealised, in their true colours. Liz saw some of De Courcelles’ faults, it is true, and grieved over them, but there was always some extenuating circumstance for them in her love-blinded eyes; and if there had not been, it was only sufficient for her lover to turn his glorious Spanish orbs reproachfully on her, to bring her, metaphorically, to his feet. Well, after all, perhaps, if love were not foolish, and weak, and blind, it would not be love at all, but only prudence; and the majority of us would fare badly enough if some one did not see us through rose-coloured glasses. It would be terrible to stand before the world as we really are, in all the hideous nakedness of our evil tempers, and inclinations, and devices, and have no sweet, generous, pitying, and all-believing love somewhere to throw a cloak above our mortal nature, and believe that the making of a saint lurks behind it.
Henri de Courcelles was thinking somewhat self-reproachfully of Liz that morning. The interview he had had with her the night before haunted him like a bitter taste when the draught is swallowed. He knew he had lied to her, and though the lie didn’t trouble him, her complete belief in his sincerity did. If we tell an untruth, and it is fiercely combatted and denied by the opposing party, we are apt to tell a dozen more to uphold the first, until we almost swear ourselves into believing it. But if the falsehood is at once received as truth, and believed in with the most innocent faith, it makes us, if we have any feeling left whatever, doubly ashamed of ourselves. Henri de Courcelles had quite ceased to love Liz Fellows—indeed, it is doubtful if he had ever loved her at all—but he had admired and esteemed her, and these very feelings had killed those of a warmer nature. She was too good for him—too far above him. She humbled him every time she opened her mouth. Maraquita Courtney was a woman much more to his taste—sweet, ripe, youthful Maraquita, with her outspoken love and unbridled passion,—her red lips and wreathing white arms, and utter disregard of truth or principle. But Monsieur de Courcelles had not been easy about Maraquita lately. He was perplexed and anxious. He did not quite foresee how matters would turn out, nor what prospect lay in the future for them. He was somewhat ashamed of the duplicity of which he had been guilty to Liz Fellows, but he consoled himself with the idea that it had been forced upon him by his relations with Maraquita, and that it behoved him, as a man of honour, to divert suspicion from her, even at the risk of deceiving another woman.
As he was dreaming and ruminating on these things, he was surprised to see Mr Courtney approaching the bungalow. It was not the planter’s custom to visit his overseer, and their business hours, which were usually passed in the office at the White House, were over for the day. De Courcelles sprang to his feet as his employer appeared, and proffered his seat for his acceptance. Mr Courtney sank into it without a word. He did not seem uneasy, but he was certainly unprepared to open the conversation. De Courcelles was the first to speak.
‘I suppose you have come to speak to me about Verney’s grant, sir. I should have given you the papers to sign this morning, but as you were not in the office, I brought them away with me again. Will you see them now?’
‘No, no! They can wait till to-morrow,’ replied Mr Courtney impatiently. ‘Verney knows they are all right, and the land is his. I was unable to attend to business this morning, for I had a disturbed night, and slept late in consequence.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. What disturbed you?’
‘The news has evidently not yet reached you. Our poor Maraquita has been dangerously ill.’
De Courcelles started, and changed colour. His olive complexion turned to a sickly yellow, and his brilliant eyes became dull and lustreless. The planter was not blind to the emotion he expressed.
‘Miss Courtney—ill?’ stammered the overseer.
‘Yes, very ill, and with this terrible fever. How she contracted it we are unable to discover, but she left her bed, and wandered in her delirium into the plantation, and fortunately towards the Doctor’s bungalow, where she now lies. You may imagine what her mother and I felt when we heard she was missing. I thought Mrs Courtney would have gone distracted. However, the first thing I thought of was to ask for Dr Fellows’ assistance, and luckily we found her there, but very, very ill.’