Lizzie saw plainly that the disaffection had spread too effectually to be quenched by her single arguments, and so she left them, and, wrapped in thought, walked leisurely away from the coolie quarters. Her first step, she felt, must be to see Henri de Courcelles, and with that intention she directed her feet towards Uncle Josh’s shanty, which stood somewhat apart from the rest. The sun was now high in the heavens, and no European was abroad who could rest at home. Lizzie’s broad-brimmed hat and white umbrella sheltered her sufficiently in the shady plantation, but she would not have ventured out, except at the call of duty, at so late an hour in the morning, and so she firmly calculated on finding Monsieur de Courcelles within the hut. She was not disappointed. Old Uncle Josh, who was an aged negro almost past work, and only kept to do light jobs about the garden and stables, came to the door with much caution to answer Lizzie’s knock for admittance, and was about to declare that he knew nothing of Monsieur de Courcelles, when a voice from within called out to him to admit the lady, and not make a d—d fool of himself. So Lizzie passed in, and found herself face to face with the man she had believed to be hundreds of miles away.
‘Monsieur,’ she commenced hurriedly, ‘I should not be here, except that I have something of the utmost importance to say to you. You must send this man away, so that he may not hear us.’
‘Go up to the plantation, Uncle Josh, or anywhere you like, and don’t come back for an hour,’ said De Courcelles, in a voice of authority; and the old negro nodded in acquiescence, and shambled off.
‘Are you sure he is safe?’ demanded Lizzie, as the man disappeared.
‘Safe as death! I have him under my thumb,’ was the confident reply. ‘And now, what can you have to say to me, Lizzie? After our last parting, I hardly expected you would seek me out of your own accord.’
‘Neither should I have done so, except that the welfare of those I love more than myself is at stake. Monsieur, why are you still on the plantation of Beauregard?’
‘I think that is my business sooner than yours.’
‘Indeed it is my business,—the business of every one who regards the Courtneys as benefactors. Your presence here can be for no good purpose. It spells ruin and devastation for them. By your false arguments you are inciting these ignorant coloured people to rebel; you are making them discontented—not to say bloodthirsty; and the upshot of your evil counsel will be a mutiny, that will involve their own downfall with those of their employers, and, perhaps, lead to murder and rapine.’
‘And what do I care if it does? It will be no more than they deserve.’
‘Oh, Henri, you cannot think what you are saying! Surely you would never be so wicked! What have the Courtneys done to make you so revengeful? They were always the kindest of patrons to you, until this unhappy business occurred with Maraquita. And even to the last they were both just and generous. How can you find it in your heart to injure them?’