‘You will take care that no one else comes in to see me to-day,’ said Quita languidly, ‘for I feel quite worn out by the annoyance I have undergone?’
‘Certainly, my dearest girl. Jessica shall see that you are not disturbed. And now try and sleep, Quita, and don’t be afraid that there will be any repetition of so disagreeable a scene. I think I have let Miss Lizzie have a piece of my mind, and that she will see I mean what I said. Depend upon it, my dear, that no ill-natured stories or repetitions can ever harm you in the future. The girl is too honest to break her word; and if she suffers a little from keeping it, she deserves as much, for her mean attempt to coerce you. Now, you must promise me to think no more about the matter.’
Maraquita gave the required promise, because she wanted to be left alone; but as she lay in the silent and shaded room, the description that her adopted sister had given her of little waxen hands and fingers, of two dark wistful eyes, and a baby mouth beginning to smile, recurred again and again to her, until something very like the longing of motherhood stirred in her bosom, and made her sob herself to sleep.
CHAPTER VI.
LIZ FELLOWS went home that day sadder than she had been before. Her lover’s defalcation had been a natural sequence to the misfortune that had overtaken her, compared to this. He had judged her harshly, and without proof, but he at least believed (or she thought he did) that she had been untrue to him, and his anger and contempt were those of a dishonoured man. But Maraquita’s conduct admitted of no such palliation. She knew better than any one else, that Liz was innocent of the charge laid against her, and yet she could coolly deny the fact, and appeal to her mother to join her in turning her adopted sister from their doors. She could shield herself behind the humiliation of her friend,—deny her maternity, and delegate her sacred duties—her most holy feelings—to another woman.
‘Feelings! Duties!’ Liz stamped her foot impatiently, as the terms occurred to her mind. Maraquita had no feelings, and recognised no duty. She was lower than the feeble little animals, who would die sooner than desert their young. She had brought a helpless infant—presumably the infant of her lover—into the world, and would not even acknowledge it was hers. Who was the father of this child, thought Liz, that he could stand by quietly and see the desertion of his offspring? Had he no natural instincts, any more than the partner of his sin? Would they both leave their infant to the tender mercies of the world, whilst they went their own ways—one, to be married to the Governor of San Diego—the other, Heaven best knew where? Well, she had staked her last chance, and lost it. Henri de Courcelles would never now receive the proof of her innocence. He was lost to her for ever, and she must bear the burden of shame laid upon her guiltless head as best she might. As she re-entered the bungalow, a wail from Quita’s hapless infant smote her with compassion.
‘My poor little orphan!’ she exclaimed, as she took it in her arms. ‘You are an outcast as well as myself. You have no parents worthy of the name, and I shall never know the joy of being a mother. We must comfort each other under this great calamity as best we may. They say you are my little daughter, and since they say so, I almost wish you were. But I will love you like a daughter, and teach you to love me like a mother, and so you shall comfort my bruised heart, and I will try and make your life happy.’