She need not have been afraid. She heard his palfrey canter by, and caught a glimpse of his handsome figure as he rode past the bungalow; but his head was filled with thoughts of Maraquita, and how he could accomplish the task she had set him, and he never even turned his head in her direction. Liz sighed as she observed the defalcation. It was foolish, no doubt, and unworthy of a sensible woman, for her first wish had been to avoid him. But who is sensible in love?
The little child was sleeping soundly at last, and Liz laid it on the pillows of her bed, and commenced her morning toilet. The thought of her father had suddenly struck her. If he was to ride to the Fort that morning and consult Dr Martin about a foster-nurse for the baby, it was time he was roused and went upon his way. The cool hours are soon over in that climate, and when the sun has fairly risen, it is unsafe for any European to ride about, and her father had not looked well of late.
The excitement of Maraquita’s illness, and the necessity for concealment, had told on Dr Fellows, and made his face more drawn and haggard than it had been before. And though he had brought much trouble on her, and might prove the cause of her losing what she most cared for, still Lizzie loved him dearly, and pitied more than she blamed him. To live for years under a load of shame and the fear of detection, what greater curse could any human creature be called upon to suffer? Liz’s own burthen sunk into insignificance beside it.
Her mind reverted to her early days, when she used to wonder why her father’s hair was grey, whilst that of Maraquita’s was brown, or why Mr Courtney played hide-and-seek with them in the plantation, whilst Dr Fellows shook his head and told her such games were only meant for little boys and girls. Liz understood it now, and felt almost glad to think she could show her sympathy with all he had gone through, even though she had to sacrifice her own future in order to pass it by his side.
Meanwhile Henri de Courcelles had completed his journey, and reined in his steed at the negroes’ quarters. The hands were all ready to receive him—the men chiefly dressed in white or striped linen jackets, with dark blue trousers, and the women in print petticoats, and gaily coloured orange or crimson handkerchiefs knotted about their woolly hair. They were a fine-looking set of coolies, all free men, as they were termed by courtesy, but in reality as much slaves as any before the passing of the Abolition Act. They were not all of African blood. Many had come from the East Indies—had been shipped across in hundreds at a time from Calcutta to San Diego, under a promise of higher pay, and less work, than they could obtain in their own country, and had been landed penniless and powerless, to find themselves compelled to take any wages that were offered them, and do any work they were ordered, because they had no means of returning to India. These coolies were not so muscular and capable of hard labour as the Africans, but they were handsomer, both in face and figure. Some of the women had almost perfect features, and were lithe and supple as young roes; but they all bore, more or less, an expression of melancholy. They were not so well able to cast off care, and make the best of the present, as their companions in slavery, but they were more crafty and more desirous of revenge. Amongst them—standing very much to the front, in fact, as if she wished to attract attention—was a young girl of perhaps fifteen—the age of a child in our country, but of a grown woman in hers. She was tall for her nationality, and had a beautifully rounded figure, with tiny hands and feet, and a face fit for a sultan’s harem. She was evidently a coquette, and thought much of her personal appearance, for a bunch of white flowers was twined in her long plaits of hair, and a crimson handkerchief was tied across her bosom. In her arms she held an infant of a few months old, a lusty crowing boy, who showed evident signs of having a mixture of white blood in his composition, and of whom his mother seemed inordinately proud. She was standing so close to Henri de Courcelles’ horse, that as he dismounted he brushed up against her, and so roughly as almost to knock her infant out of her arms.
‘Ah, sahib! take care of the little baby!’ she cried warningly.
‘Who’s that? Jerusha! Then keep your cub out of my way, will you? Now then, my men, are you all ready? March!’
The coolie girl frowned ominously as the overseer addressed her, but she made no answer. Only as the rest of the labourers moved off in single file to the fields, she remained to the last, sulking, as if she had no intention to move.
‘Now then, Jerusha!’ exclaimed Henri de Courcelles impatiently, as he told off the last negro, and saw her standing there. ‘Make haste, will you?’ and he cracked the whip he held as he spoke. He seldom used the whip. It was only his insignia of office, and served as a signal for starting, but it sounded differently in Jerusha’s ears that morning.
‘You dare beat us?’ she demanded menacingly.