‘They are Maraquita’s parents,’ he answered gloomily.
‘And would you avenge her falsehood—her broken faith—upon them? Monsieur, that is not like yourself! It is unworthy of any one calling himself a man.’
‘What right had they to turn me off Beauregard, then? It was only done to shield her, because they suspect the truth, and are afraid I might prove a dangerous rival. She marries the Governor of San Diego, and is lapped in luxury and comfort, whilst I (who am morally her husband) am sent adrift, like a rudderless boat, to toss anywhere on the sea of life. But I’ll be even with her yet, and her bald-headed old ape of a partner too.’
‘Henri, you must not speak like that,’ said Lizzie firmly. ‘I feel for your disappointment—indeed I do; it must be a bitterly hard one; but to try and revenge yourself in this manner is a cowardly and wicked thing. The feeling of disaffection is rife enough in the island, without your adding to it. I beg—I pray of you to leave the plantation, and not return. You have no right here, and if you remain, I shall consider it my duty to inform Mr Courtney; and you know how painful it would be for me to say anything to him against you. Henri, for the sake of old times, do as I ask you.’
‘You are a good woman, Lizzie—I have always maintained that—and, if you wish it, I will go. But, mind you, my departure will not stop the rising mutiny, any more than my remaining here hatched it into life. The native population is ripe for rebellion, and it is only now a question of weeks—perhaps days—before they burst into open revolt. I am glad I have seen you, to warn you against it. The coolies will not harm you, I am sure—they love and reverence you too much—but they may frighten you, and I should wish to prevent even that. But as for the rest—well! I shall not be satisfied till I see the White House and Government House in ashes, and their owners weltering in their blood!’
The expression of his face was so murderous as he spoke, that Lizzie fairly screamed,—
‘Oh, Henri, Henri, surely you are not in earnest! You would never countenance nor encourage so horrible an idea! You would save those who have been good to you—whom you once believed you loved—at the risk of your own life! Tell me it is the truth, for I will never leave you till you acknowledge it.’
Henri de Courcelles seized her two hands in a grip of iron, and drew her towards him, until their faces nearly touched each other.
‘Lizzie Fellows,’ he exclaimed roughly, to hide his emotion, ‘if I could have gone on loving you, if that heartless jade had not come between us with her mock innocence and her fatal beauty and blinded my eyes to your superior virtues, I should have been a happier and better man to-day. But now, I know it is too late. You have ceased to love me, and I shall never again be able to lay any claim to your hand.’
‘But I have not ceased to care if you are a good man or a bad one, Henri,’ she answered, through her tears; ‘and I entreat you now, by your memory of the past, to do what I ask you, and leave Beauregard.’