De Courcelles turned pale.
‘What views?’ he stammered. ‘Mr Courtney gave me some hints the other day that you were likely to make a grand marriage, but I felt—I knew, that it could not be true.’
‘But it is true, Henri. Sir Russell Johnstone, the Governor of the island, has proposed for me, and my father insists on my accepting him.’
‘And you will?’ cried De Courcelles, in a voice of anguish.
‘What am I to do?’ asked Maraquita wildly. ‘Can I go to my parents and tell them I have disgraced myself? How would that benefit us? I have already told you they would never consent to my marrying you. And this marriage will, at all events, shelter me from any risk in the future. No one will be able to harm me when I am the Governor’s wife.’
‘You will do it!’ exclaimed Henri de Courcelles fiercely; ‘I feel that you will do it!’
At that moment he saw the girl in her true colours—selfish, avaricious and worldly-minded, yet, with the insane blindness of passion, he would have wrested her from the hands of his rival, even though his victory bound him to a life-long curse. His Nemesis had already overtaken him. He had seized his prey, but he could not hold it. He had made Maraquita (as he fondly believed) his own. In doing so, he had outraged every law of morality and friendship. He had even thrown over Liz Fellows, whom he knew loved him so purely and truly, and yet his sins had been sinned in vain. Quita no more belonged to him than the plantation of Beauregard did. She was straining at her fetters even now, and before long she would burst them altogether, to become the wife of the Governor of San Diego. As the truth struck home to him, De Courcelles’ pain turned to anger.
‘You cannot! You dare not!’ he continued. ‘You are in my power, Maraquita, and I defy you to throw me over.’
Then her bravado changed to craven fear. She could lie and deceive, and be selfish and ungrateful, this beautiful piece of feminine humanity, but she was a terrible coward, and her lover’s Spanish eyes were gleaming on her like two daggers.
‘Ah, don’t be angry with me, Henri!’ she exclaimed pitifully. ‘You know how much I love you. Haven’t I given you good proof of my affection? Do you think it possible that I could marry any one else of my own free will?’