‘But not for always, Lizzie. Only let me get this marriage over, and I shall be better able to see my way before me. And I shall be rich, too, and able to reward you for your kindness. The child shall never be any burden to you, Lizzie. You may depend upon me for that.’
‘And do you suppose I would take your money?’ cried the other contemptuously. ‘Do you ask me to sell my honour? You accuse me publicly of being the unmarried mother of this child, and then offer to pay me for the disgrace. You are only heaping insult upon insult, Quita. You had better leave me before you make me forget myself.’
‘Oh, no, Lizzie, I cannot leave you,’ exclaimed the unhappy girl, drawing nearer to her, ‘until you have heard all I have to say! You have always been my best friend, Lizzie. As a little child I used to run to you in every trouble, and trust you to get me out of every scrape. You will not do less for me now, Lizzie, will you?’
‘You ask too much, Maraquita. You forget that in helping you out of this danger, I involve myself, in the way which good women dread above everything. I have done it, but it is at the expense of our friendship. I can never be friends with you again.’
‘But you must—you must!’ cried Quita, falling on her knees, and hiding her face in Lizzie’s lap, ‘for your father’s sake, Lizzie, if not for mine.’
‘I have done it for my father’s sake,’ replied Lizzie, as she moved away from Maraquita’s clasp. ‘Do you suppose I have not been thinking of him all to-day, and of the promise I made him? Nothing else would have kept me silent; but it is over now, and we need say no more upon the subject. I beg of you, Quita, to leave me, and go home again, for your presence here is very painful to me.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, don’t be so hard! I am not the unfeeling creature you take me for. It is only fear of my parents that makes me shrink from confessing the truth. They would kill me, Lizzie, if they knew it. They would not let me live to disgrace them.’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Lizzie. ‘They would do nothing of the sort. They would reproach you as they have me, and you richly deserve it. But tell the truth whilst you are about it, Maraquita. Say that you have no feeling either for your child or its father (whoever he may be), and I may believe what you say.’
‘But you are wrong,’ interposed Quita eagerly. ‘I love him dearly, and I should have loved it also, if I had not been afraid. And I can prove it to you, Lizzie, for I have come here to-night to see the baby, and I shall come as often as I can without exciting suspicion. Where is she? Let me see her at once.’
‘What baby?’ demanded Liz, with affected ignorance.