‘Massa Courcelles not in San Diego?’ repeated the shrill voice of Betsy. ‘Oh, Missy Liz, who tell you dat ar lie? Massa Courcelles nebber leave de plantation yet. He’s living up at old Josh’s shanty, t’other side of de avenue, and he comes along of evenings, and talks to us all of our troubles.’
Lizzie’s brow flushed darkly. What could be the meaning of Henri de Courcelles hiding himself on Beauregard? For what reason was he hanging about the plantation, and mixing familiarly with the people whom he professed to abhor?
‘And what troubles have you that you can confide to a gentleman’s ears, Betsy?’ she demanded reprovingly. ‘Monsieur de Courcelles was not so kind to you whilst he was your overseer, that you should expect to find a friend in him now. There is some deeper meaning, I am afraid, in his pretended interest in you, than that of making your life more comfortable.’
‘You may well say that, Miss Lizzie!’ cried Jerusha, who was standing in the crowd, with her baby in her arms. ‘Dat man nebber sorry for nobody but himself. What he care if our work is hard, or our backs ache wid de sun, or our huts is dark, or de food common? Did he care when my back was bowed wid pain, and my head wid shame, and I couldn’t hardly stand upon my legs? Didn’t he strike me and my poor leetle boy, and say, “D—n you! Go hell! I make you work like a dog”?’
‘Hush, hush, Jerusha!’ exclaimed Lizzie, as she rose and placed her hand kindly on the shoulder of the excited coolie. ‘I know you have had your troubles, my poor girl. I know Monsieur de Courcelles has wronged you terribly, but you must try to be patient, and forgive, as—as—we all have to do sometimes.’
But Jerusha shook the compassionating touch off her.
‘No, Missy Liz,’ she said loudly, ‘I can’t forgive. If he had given me one kind word, I’se have worked for him to my last day, and been glad only to see him well and happy; but he’s bad all through, to de very core. He wrong more dan me. Ah, I know plenty tings people not thinking! and now he come and ’cite dese niggers to revenge demselves, and send all de planters out of de island, and keep de fields for dere own use. Dat his way of “paying out” somebody, Missy Liz. But I know him and his dark ways, and if dese people rise ’gainst de planters, Massa Courcelles shall be de first to go, if I kill him with my own hand.’
‘Rise!’ cried Lizzie indignantly. ‘Surely, after all the kindness they have experienced from Mr and Mrs Courtney, there is no one on this plantation so wicked as to dream of rising. What should they do it for? What more can they desire than they already possess? There are no hands on the island more looked after and cared for than those on Beauregard.’
‘I dunno dat,’ chimed in a discontented voice. ‘San Souci niggers gets a tot of rum ebery night, and a quarter of a pound more meat than we do.’
‘Who said that?’ exclaimed Lizzie quickly, turning round. ‘Ah, it was you, Aunt Sally! That’s a nice grateful thing to say, when you were down with fever three weeks this year, and received your wages all the same, though you couldn’t do a stroke of work. That’s the best return you can make, is it? And you know why the San Souci hands get extra rations well enough,—because the plantation is so near the swamp, and so unhealthy in consequence, that they are half their time down with fever and ague. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to set such a bad example to the others.’