Maraquita did not argue with her own conscience in so many words, but such were the thoughts that flitted through her brain as she traversed the slight distance between the overseer’s bungalow and the White House, and noiselessly re-entered her chamber. Jessica, who had watched her go and return, never closed her faithful eyes in slumber until she was assured that her young mistress was safely in her bed again, and, for the first time since she had sought it, fast asleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
MEANWHILE Lizzie Fellows, unconscious of her lover’s infidelity, sat up the livelong night, cradling his deserted infant in her arms. Whilst the members of the White House were wrapped in slumber, and even Maraquita and Henri de Courcelles had gained a temporary relief from their perplexities, and everything was hushed and silent in the Doctor’s bungalow, Liz rocked the wailing infant to and fro, or slowly paced up and down the room singing a soft lullaby to try and soothe it. But the puny little creature refused to be comforted. It wanted the warmth and shelter of its mother’s bosom, and bleated as pitifully for it as an orphaned lamb standing beside the dead body of the ewe on a bleak hillside. Liz, who had had a great deal of experience with children, tried all her arts to quiet it in vain. The baby was determined she should have no rest that night.
‘Poor wee mite,’ she whispered, as she laid her cheek against its face, and a natural instinct made it turn its soft lips towards it to find the breast. ‘How can she leave you to the care of strangers? How can she sleep in comfort, not knowing if you cry, or are at peace? If you were mine, I would die sooner than give up my mother’s right to feed and cherish you, yes, even if the world stoned me for it. How I wish I might bring you up for my own little girl—my little tiny Maraquita!’
How startled we should be sometimes if the wishes we carelessly utter were to be immediately fulfilled! Liz little thought as she crooned over the unconscious baby, that the hour was rapidly approaching when her puzzle would be not how to keep it, but how to get rid of it. Yet so it was.
All that night she walked the room with its little downy head nestled close to her bosom, and its tiny fingers locked round her own. A dozen times she warmed the milk, of which it could only take a few drops, to keep the flickering life in its frail body, and covered it warmly with flannel, to increase the circulation of its blood, although the hot night air permeated the apartment. It was so feeble, that sometimes she almost thought its heart had stopped beating, and uncovered it with a sudden terror. But the infant slept on, although each breath it drew seemed like a wail, until the shadows dispersed, and the glorious West Indian sun rose like a king, and flooded the island with his glory. There seemed to be no dawn to the watcher, or rather it was so momentary, that the night changed as if by magic into day, and the windows of heaven were thrown open suddenly to let the sunlight stream upon the land. It was the waking signal for all life. The big magnolia flowers opened their creamy blossoms as they felt its rays; the trumpet creepers unfolded their leaves; the mimosa spread herself out as though she would bask in the returning light. A hundred scents filled the morning air, and from the grove of trees came many a chirp—first singly and then in twos and threes, as the birds encouraged their mates to rouse themselves, and come forth to pick up the insects before they hid in the long grasses from the noonday heat. From the negro quarters was borne a sort of humming sound, as of a disturbed bee-hive, as the Aunt Sallies and Chloes and Uncle Toms turned out of their beds, and made their toilets in the open air. The morning had broken. It was five o’clock, and in another half-hour the overseer would be amongst them, and accept no excuses if the whole gang were not drawn up in readiness to march down to the cotton fields or the coffee plantation.
Liz sat in her room with the baby on her knee, listening for the sound of his mustang’s feet. How often had she been roused from her sleep as they passed her window, and breathed a prayer for her lover’s safety before she laid her head on her pillow again—or watched for him after a night’s vigil, and given him a bright smile and a wave of her hand as a morning welcome. But to-day she shrank from seeing him. A cloud had risen between them, with the knowledge of her father’s secret, which made her afraid to meet the eyes of the man from whom she would be, perhaps, but too soon parted for ever. Besides, were a look from her to bring him to the open window, the sacred trust she held in her arms might be betrayed. Liz blushed as she wondered what explanation she could possibly give Henri de Courcelles of the child’s presence there, and how curious he would become to learn its parentage, and moved further from the window as the thought struck her.