‘But I cannot speak—my lips are sealed,’ cried Lizzie wildly; ‘and he will not accept my word, instead of an explanation. Don’t you understand me, Quita? Henri has heard this scandalous report about the child, and believes it to be mine. He demands the name of the mother, and no one but you can satisfy him. Oh, Quita, release me from this awful vow, that threatens to ruin my character and blast my whole life! Think, dear—is it fair that I should lose everything I love and value most, because of your fault? Be brave and generous enough to share the blame with me, and I promise you before God that it shall never go any further.’
Maraquita sat straight up on her couch, and stared at her adopted sister.
‘What do you want me to do? Speak plainly, for I do not comprehend your meaning.’
‘I want you to tell your parents what you have done. They will pity, and love, and forgive you, Quita, as I do. They will feel it was your youth and ignorance that were at fault, and not your heart; and you will feel happier, my poor sister, when your mother has shared your secret, and forgiven it. I want you to tell Mr and Mrs Courtney that the child in my bungalow is yours.’
‘What!’ cried Quita shrilly. ‘You want me to tell a lie in order to screen yourself?’
‘A lie!’ repeated Lizzie. ‘You know it is not a lie; you know when you came to us that night that you were delivered of a daughter, and that my poor father took charge of it for you. Oh, Quita, if you could see her,—her little waxen hands and feet, her wistful dark eyes, so like your own, and her tiny mouth, which just begins to smile, your mother’s heart would yearn to claim her for your own!’
For one moment Quita trembled at the picture Liz had conjured up, but the next, fear of ruining her own prospects crushed the softer feeling in her heart.
‘I deny it!’ she exclaimed loudly. ‘I deny every word you have uttered. You are either mad, or you mistake me for some other woman. How dare you insinuate that I have ever had a child?’
‘You deny it!’ echoed Lizzie, rising to her feet. ‘You can actually look me in the face, and deny it, Quita?’
‘Most emphatically I do, and resent the insult you have laid upon me. I know nothing about the child which is in your bungalow. It may be yours, or any other woman’s, but it certainly is not mine; and if my parents heard you had accused me of such a dishonour, they would turn you from their doors!’