"Yes'm. Lor! Yo' done got headache fo' shuah!" he muttered, watching the candle that she held shake so that the flame was endangered, as she passed up the stairs to bed.
CHAPTER X
Puritan and Courtier
"What time was it when you reached home last night, Deborah?" asked Madam Trevor.
The doctor, his sisters, and their guests were seated at a very late breakfast, of which extremely little was being eaten.
Deborah looked uncomfortable at the bald directness of the question. Being under no suspicious eye, however, she dropped an hour, and was able to reply, with some nonchalance: "About twelve, I believe, madam. Really—my head—I'm not quite certain about the time."
Lucy nodded sympathetically: "Indeed, Debby, if your head then was like mine now—"
"You will not complain of your health in this manner, before us all. It is most unladylike!" said Madam Trevor, sharply.
Lucy quivered and shrank into silence. She was in the highest disfavor with her mother this morning, and only too well did she know why. Aching head or not, there was an ordeal ahead of her for the afternoon, to endure which she was inwardly praying for strength, but over which she was in reality desperate. If Rockwell appeared at the plantation, as he had vowed to do, with Madam Trevor still in this morning's mood, poor Lucy knew that John Whitney's fate and hers hung in a hopeless balance. And there was no one to whom she could look for help. Virginia and Deborah would be very kind, but neither of them could bring any opposition to her mother's intention. Of Vincent she did not think at all. Had she done so, it would have been merely to add a new despair; for to consider Vincent as her ally against his mother was impossible on the face of it. So little Lucy reasoned, dolefully, through the meal, till her attention was caught by Vincent's question:
"Where's Charles, doctor—Fairfield, I mean? I haven't seen him since we were dancing last night."