‘But why? Surely you will give me a reason for your refusal, Lizzie.’
‘My reason is soon given, monsieur. Maraquita—my earliest friend and my adopted sister—was here last night. She came to ask permission to see the child, of whom both of you have accused me of being the mother, and I refused her. I told her since I had to bear the blame, I would also maintain the authority over it. And then—in a moment of passion, I suppose—somewhat like that moment which influenced you basely to get out of your engagement to me by means of a lie—she told me the name of the child’s father. Now, do you wonder that I say that henceforth there never can be any communion between you and me, except of the most ordinary kind. The man who could take advantage of his own sin to ruin the character of an innocent woman, will never make a good husband to any one, and I have done with you for ever!’
Henri de Courcelles turned his face away to the open window, the dark blood mantling for very shame into his cheeks.
‘I have nothing to say for myself,’ he muttered presently. ‘I am only a man, and men are very open to temptations such as these. But if I have sinned, I have also suffered. I was led on by a heartless woman, who has deserted her child, and thrown me over for the first suitor who presents himself with money and position in his hands. I would have married her willingly, but she refused to marry me. She is an infernal jilt, with as false a heart and tongue as ever woman had; and she has been my ruin. She is nothing to me now, and she never will be. If you took compassion on me, Lizzie, and healed my sore heart with your pure affection, you should never have reason to complain of even my thoughts straying that way. I hate the very name of her.’
‘That is no palliation of your fault, in my eyes, monsieur. I should feel for you more if you told me her desertion had made you miserable. But why do you not appeal to Mr Courtney to stop this unnatural marriage? Did he know the truth, he would surely never allow his daughter so to prostitute herself.’
‘What good should I effect by that, Lizzie? Mr Courtney would only banish me at once from Beauregard. Do you suppose he would give up the prospect of Maraquita becoming the Governor’s wife, for the sake of an overseer? Besides, he already suspects that I admire her, and has told me as much, with the adjoinder that the only condition on which I can retain my situation is to fulfil my engagement with you, and settle down at the Oleander Bungalow as a married man. In that case, he has promised to refurnish the house, and raise my salary. So, you see, we should be very comfortable; and, if you wished it, you could retain your medical appointment over the plantation.’
‘And so I am to be made the scapegoat to bear your sins into the wilderness, and to patch up your injured character at Beauregard! You have mistaken me altogether. I am capable, I think, of making great sacrifices for a man who loves me, but not for one who rightly belongs to another woman. You will not retain your position at Beauregard through my means.’
‘Then I am ruined,’ returned the overseer fiercely, ‘and I owe my downfall to you two women! You have destroyed my life between you. I shall be turned off the plantation, without a prospect of employment. And if I become desperate, it will be laid at your door.’
‘At Maraquita’s, if you please, monsieur, but not at mine. I would have clung to you through good and evil report, had you been true to me. But I cannot forget the cruel infamy you put upon me, knowing it to be false. It is a crime past a woman’s forgiveness,—a calumny that will cling to me through life, even though you married me in church to-morrow. Yet I would rather go down to the grave enduring it, than become your wife.’
‘It is finished then!’ exclaimed De Courcelles, seizing his hat and rushing from the apartment, ‘and I will trouble you no more on the subject, now or ever,’—and the next moment he was striding hurriedly towards his home.