Then Quita took to beseeching. She fell on her knees again, and held Lizzie tightly clasped about her feet.
‘Oh, my dear sister, let me see my baby, if only for a minute! I have been thinking of her ever since this morning, Lizzie,—of the dark eyes you spoke of,—the tiny waxen hands and feet, and the rosebud mouth; and I feel as if I should die if I do not have her in my arms, and kiss her, and tell her that I am her mother.’
‘Will you tell the world so, Maraquita?’
‘You know that I cannot.’
‘Then you will not see your child until you do,’ replied Lizzie, as she locked the bedroom door, and put the key into her pocket. ‘You have openly disgraced me by palming on me the consequences of your own sin. You have denied your motherhood, and given up your most sacred rights and duties. Well, for your sake, and to conceal your shame, I accept them; and the first act which I exercise is to keep the child to myself.’
‘You actually refuse?’ cried Quita, starting to her feet, crimson with indignation.
‘Emphatically. There is only one way you can secure the privilege, and that is by an open confession of the truth.’
‘Then I shall never do it! And you may carry the burden to your life’s end!’ exclaimed Maraquita furiously. ‘And another with it, for you do not know all. You have never asked me the name of the father of this child! You came crying to me this morning about Henri de Courcelles, and how much you loved him, and how anxious he was to discover the parentage of my baby. He has lied to you! He has made use of this dilemma to get rid of you; for he knows whose baby this is as well as I do. He knows the mother and the father of it—for the father is himself!’
She watched the light fade out of Lizzie’s eyes as the cruel truth smote upon her heart, and she grasped at the back of a chair to save herself from falling. But when the first shock was over, she refused to believe the story.
‘Henri!’ she exclaimed, in a faint voice. ‘But it is impossible! Henri is—is—mine!’