Up to that moment Rosa had fed and washed the baby, and slept with it in her arms, but now Lizzie took all these sweet maternal duties into her own hands. She nursed it all that day, and when night came she laid it in her own bed. When it was fairly asleep, and Rosa had run over to the negroes’ quarters to chat with her friends, Liz sat down to her sewing in the sitting-room, calmer and less perplexed than she had been for days past.
Up to that time she had cherished hope, but now all hope was over. She knew the worst. It was bitterly hard to know it, but at all events suspense was at an end, and there was no new trouble to learn. As she sat by the shaded lamplight, wondering if Mr Courtney knew the name of her father’s family, and if the knowledge could be of any use to herself, she heard a light footstep creeping softly along the verandah, a footstep which she recognised at once, and which she had been wont to jump up and welcome. But now Liz sat still, with burning cheeks bent over her needlework. If Maraquita wished to come to any terms with her, she must be the one to propose them. Liz had prayed her last prayer to the companion of her childhood. Presently a very low and fearful voice called her by her name.
‘Lizzie, Lizzie! Are you quite alone?’
But Lizzie refused to answer, and Maraquita was compelled to advance into the room. She looked very white and scared, and the folds of her long mantle fell round a fragile figure.
‘Lizzie! Why will you not speak to me? Papa and mamma have gone to the theatre with Sir Russell Johnstone; but I excused myself on the plea of a headache, so that I might come and see you.’
‘And what do you want with me?’ demanded Lizzie coldly.
‘Cannot you guess? I am so unhappy at what took place this morning. I shall not rest until things are right again between us.’
‘I do not understand you, Quita! I conclude you spoke the truth this morning, or what you believed to be the truth, and I have nothing more to say upon the subject.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, have pity on me! You know it was not the truth; but what can I do? Everything that makes life valuable to me seems slipping through my fingers. I could not make up my mind to confess to my own ruin.’
‘And so you would ruin me instead—I, who have been like a sister to you? You would save your own character at the expense of mine?’