Maraquita’s little daughter was a tiny, fragile-looking thing, with large dark eyes and a waxen complexion, and a wistful, solemn expression, as if she were asking the cold world not to spurn her for her parents’ fault. The first view of her touched Lizzie deeply. She hardly knew herself why she cried like a child at the sight of those tiny hands and feet, those grave, wondering eyes, and the head of soft, dark hair that nestled against her bosom. But the best feelings of her nature rose to the surface, and her first idea was that she could never part with the child again, but would tend and rear it for Maraquita’s sake. But when she confided her wishes to Dr Fellows, he shook his head in dissent.
‘It would never do, Lizzie. It would be too great a risk,’ he said. ‘The child’s presence here would excite general curiosity. The talk would reach Maraquita’s ears, and its proximity would unsettle her—perhaps cause her to betray herself. There is only one safe course to pursue in these unhappy cases, and that is, complete separation. Take care of the poor little creature to-night for me, and to-morrow I will ride over to the Fort, and see if Dr Martin knows of any trustworthy woman to take charge of it. The regiment is to be relieved next month. If I can get the child shipped off to England, I shall consider it the most fortunate circumstance that could befall it, unless indeed it would die first, which would be still better.’
‘Oh, father!’ cried Liz reproachfully, as she laid her lips against the baby’s velvet cheek.
‘It sounds hard, my dear, but it can inherit nothing but a life of shame and loneliness, and it would be very merciful of God to take it. You don’t know what it is to live under the crushing sense of shame. Besides, it is a weakly infant, and under any circumstances is not likely to make old bones.’
‘I believe that I could rear it, with care and attention,’ repeated Liz, wistfully.
‘It is impossible,’ repeated the Doctor briefly, as he left the room.
But in a few minutes he returned, and walked up to where his daughter was still crooning over the baby.
‘Lizzie, I have been thinking over your wish to tell Henri de Courcelles my story. But it must not be, my dear—not at least during my lifetime. You will be angry with me for saying so, but I don’t quite trust De Courcelles. We have never got on well together. There is something about him I don’t understand. If I should die, Lizzie, and sometimes I think it won’t be long, first, you can do as you think fit, but whilst I live, I hold you to your promise of secrecy.’
‘And I will keep it,’ replied Lizzie, ‘as if it had been made to God.’
