‘With Lizzie? In the bungalow?’ cried Quita, turning ashy pale. ‘Oh, my God! then all is over, and I am lost!’
‘Hush! hush! Maraquita. Nothing of the sort. Liz refuses to say a word upon the subject. I have questioned her narrowly; so has your father; and all she will answer is that before his death Dr Fellows extracted a solemn oath from her never to disclose anything concerning the child, and that her lips are sealed.’
‘Oh, but it will come out; it is sure to come out some day!’ exclaimed Quita, weeping, as she wrung her hands in abject fear. ‘You have ruined me, Henri! You have destroyed all my future prospects! I shall be branded for ever as a dishonest woman!’
‘But it is impossible! All the plantation—I may say all San Diego—already believes the child to be Lizzie’s own.’
Maraquita stared at him in astonishment.
‘They believe that! But what does Lizzie say?’
‘She can say nothing! Her lips are sealed by her oath!’
‘Some day the shame may prove too hard to bear, and they will be forced open.’
‘It will be too late then to assert her innocence. The world of San Diego is quite convinced by this time that she is the mother of the infant, and her attempts to cast the blame on you will only appear to be an impudent subterfuge. She has no proof—or witness—to bring forward in confirmation of the truth.’
‘Poor Lizzie,’ said Quita, in a low voice, visions of past kindnesses on the part of her adopted sister, and of a faithful life-long affection, floated before her mind, and made her tremble. Something—was it the last effort made by her Good Angel in her behalf—seemed to rise within her heart, and prompt her to cry out that it must not be, that she could not be guilty of this dreadful wrong, and let her just burthen lie on the shoulders of an innocent woman. But then she remembered the shame and the disgrace that would ensue to her, and how her parents would despise and reproach her, and Sir Russell Johnstone would refuse to make her his wife, and moral cowardice made her shiver and remain silent.