They were indeed playing at cross-purposes—she, thinking only of the story her father had told her, and he of Maraquita and her possible revelations.
Liz sighed, and redirected her attention to her work. The same dissatisfied feeling which she had experienced the night before crept over her again, and turned her sick and cold, and it was not dispersed when Henri de Courcelles, after an awkward silence, lifted his broad-brimmed hat from his brow, and walked gloomily away.
CHAPTER VI.
A WEEK had passed away since Maraquita Courtney had entered the Doctor’s bungalow, and the moment that Liz dreaded had arrived—they were to meet again. Never once had she entered Quita’s chamber during the period of her illness. Dr Fellows had chosen the oldest, most stupid, and most deaf negress on the plantation to attend to his patient’s wants, and sternly forbidden his daughter to enter her presence. But to-day she was pronounced convalescent, or sufficiently so to return to the White House, and her parents, who were naturally anxious to have her home again, had arranged to fetch her away that afternoon. Dr Fellows had said to his daughter a moment before, on passing through the sitting-room,—
‘Maraquita is up and dressed, and will be with you in a short time. She is still weak and nervous. Mind you say nothing to upset her;’ and Liz had promised, feeling almost as nervous at the idea of the coming interview as Quita herself could have done.
She had not to wait long. In a few minutes the bedroom door opened, and Maraquita, leaning on the arm of the old negress, walked slowly into the apartment. She was robed in a white muslin gown. Her dark hair was hanging loose upon her shoulders, and her face was as white as her attire. There was an ethereal look about the girl that naturally excited pity, and the scared expression on her features went straight to Liz’s kindly heart. In a moment she had sprung to her assistance.
‘You are still very weak, Quita. Are you sure you feel equal to leaving your room?’