‘I’m going to England, Miss Dupuy,’ the poor young mulatto went on in broken accents; ‘I can stand no longer the shame and misery of my own surroundings in this island. You know what they are. Picture them to yourself for a moment. Forget you are a white woman, a member of this old proud unforgiving aristocracy—“for they ne’er pardon who have done the wrong:” forget it for once, and try to think how it would feel to you, after your English up-bringing, with your tastes and ideas and habits and sentiments, to be suddenly set down in the midst of a society like that of the ignorant coloured class here in Trinidad. On the one side, contempt and contumely from the most boorish and unlettered whites; on the other side, utter uncongeniality with one’s own poor miserable people. Picture it to yourself—how absolutely unendurable!’
Nora bethought her silently of Tom Dupuy from both points of view, and answered in a low tone: ‘Dr Whitaker, I recognise the truth of what you say. I—I am sorry for you; I sympathise with you.’
It was a great deal for a daughter of the old slave-owning oligarchy to say—how much, people in England can hardly realise; and Dr Whitaker accepted it gratefully. ‘It’s very kind of you, Miss Dupuy,’ he went on again, the tears rising quickly to his eyes, ‘very, very kind of you. But the struggle is over; I can’t stand it any longer; I mean at once to return to England.’
‘You will do wisely, I think,’ Nora answered, looking at him steadily.
‘I will do wisely,’ he repeated in a wandering tone. ‘Yes, I will do wisely. But, Miss Dupuy, strange to say, there is one thing that still binds me down to Trinidad.—Oh, for heaven’s sake, listen to me, and don’t condemn me unheard.—No, no, I beg of you, don’t rise yet! I will be brief. Hear me out, I implore of you, I implore of you! I am only a mulatto, I know; but mulattoes have a heart as well as white men—better than some, I do honestly believe. Miss Dupuy, from the very first moment I saw you, I—I loved you! yes, I will say it—I loved you!—I loved you!’
Nora rose, and stood erect before him, proud but tremulous, in her girlish beauty. ‘Dr Whitaker,’ she said, in a very calm tone, ‘I knew it; I saw it. From the first moment you ever spoke to me, I knew it perfectly.’
He drew a long breath to still the violent throbbing of his heart. ‘You knew it,’ he said, almost joyously—‘you knew it! And you did not repel me! Oh, Miss Dupuy, for one of your blood and birth, that was indeed a great condescension!’
Nora hesitated. ‘I liked you, Dr Whitaker,’ she answered slowly—‘I liked you, and I was sorry for you.’
‘Thank you, thank you. Whatever else you say, for that one word I thank you earnestly. But oh, what more can I say to you? I love you; I have always loved you. I shall always love you in future. Take me or reject me, I shall always love you. And yet, how can I ask you? But in England—in England, Miss Dupuy, the barrier would be less absolute.—Yes, yes; I know how hopeless it is: but this once—this once only! I must ask you! Oh, for pity’s sake, in England—far away from it all—in London—where nobody thinks of these things! Why, I know a Hindu barrister—— But there! it’s not a matter for reasoning; it lies between heart and heart! Oh, Miss Dupuy, tell me—tell me, tell me, is there—is there any chance for me?’
Nora’s heart relented within her. ‘Dr Whitaker,’ she said slowly and remorsefully, ‘you can’t tell how much I feel for you. I can see at once what a dreadful position you are placed in. I can see, of course, how impossible it is for you ever to think of marrying any—any lady of your own colour—at least as they are brought up here in Trinidad. I can see that you could only fall in love with—with a white lady, a person fitted by education and manners to be a companion to you. I know how clever you are, and I think I can see how good you are too. I know how far all your tastes and ideas are above those of the people you must mix with here, or, for that matter, above Tom Dupuy’s—or my own either. I see it all; I know it all. And indeed, I like you—I admire you, and I like you. I don’t want you to think me unkind and unappreciative.—Dr Whitaker, I feel truly flattered that you should speak so to me this evening—but’—— And she hesitated. The young mulatto felt that that ‘but’ was the very deathblow to his last faint hope and aspiration. ‘But—— Well, you know these things are something more than a mere matter of liking and admiring. Let us still be friends, Dr Whitaker—let us still be friends.—And there’s the band striking up the next waltz. Will you kindly take me back to the ballroom? I—I am engaged to dance it with Captain Castello.’