‘Dat’s true, and you know it, Missy Liz. And de Governor shall know it, too, and Massa Courtney, and all de world, dat she am no better than de poor coolie gals what go all wrong.’
‘Jerusha, I implore you, for God’s sake!’ commenced Lizzie again.
But before she could finish her entreaty, Maraquita had pushed open the bedroom door, and stood beside her, pale and trembling, but not courageous, except with the courage born of despair.
‘It is true!’ she gasped, rather than said, ‘and I am ready to confess it. No, Lizzie, don’t try to prevent my speaking. Everybody may hear me now. I can suffer in secret no longer. Father, I am not what you thought me! I am a sinful girl, and I have let the burden of my shameful secret rest on Lizzie’s shoulders. These people only say what is true. They hate me for what I have done, and want to revenge themselves on us all, for my sake. Perhaps, now that I have confessed my sin, they will pity and forgive me.’
She sunk exhausted with fear and shame on Lizzie’s shoulder as she finished her recital. Sir Russell Johnstone and her parents were standing by, horror-struck by what they had heard, and forgetful of their own safety in the agony of witnessing her humiliation. But Lizzie was the only person who addressed her.
‘Hush, Quita, you have said enough; and surely all will think you have suffered sufficiently, and need no further punishment.’
But the continual groaning and muttering of the crowd outside did not seem as though their anger was appeased, and Quita shuddered as she heard it.
‘Give me my child!’ she exclaimed wildly. ‘Everything is slipping from me. My father and mother stand by in silence, my husband will drive me from his house. Give me something that I can call my own! Lizzie, I want my child!’
‘There is your child, Quita,’ replied her adopted sister sadly, as she led her to the table. ‘God has already called it through their hands to Himself. They would not leave you even that poor consolation, my unhappy Quita.’
‘Dead!’ cried the unfortunate Lady Russell, as she gazed upon her infant’s breathless form, ‘dead! Oh, Henri, Henri, why was I ever untrue to you, and to myself? My punishment is harder than I can bear.’