CHAPTER XII.

The next day Jacqueline was better, and about noon General and Mrs. Temple arrived. Mrs. Temple showed no surprise when she heard that Jacqueline had come the day before; and when Judith said, falteringly, that Jacqueline had probably misunderstood their plans, Mrs. Temple accepted it quite naturally. About the same time Dr. Wortley, who had been sent for, came, and pronounced Jacqueline's attack to be nothing but cold and fever, and raised the prohibition against her talking. The first time Mrs. Temple was out of the room, Jacqueline called Judith to her.

"Judith, I have been thinking about this, and I have made up my mind."

This was so unlike Jacqueline that Judith stared.

"If I thought Freke was really a single man, I would give up everybody--even you--for him. But nobody on earth knows what I suffered from my conscience while I was with him! And I believe Freke told the truth when he said we weren't married, after all, in spite of that minister and the fifty dollars. And now, dear Judith, it seems so easy to keep papa and mamma from knowing it."

"Easy, Jacqueline?--"

"Yes, easy, if you will only write to Aunt Steptoe; and it would kill me to have to face them!"

"But, Jacqueline, suppose--suppose Freke should claim you, or you might, in years to come, want to marry some one else?"

"I will promise you I will not--I will swear it--if I can't marry Freke, you may depend upon it I sha'n't marry anybody else! But, Judith, will you promise me to say nothing to papa and mamma until you have seen Freke, for he knows what ought to be done? I know--and I am sure--he will come back in a day or two. He knows well enough where I have run away to."

Judith was loath to making any promise at all, but Jacqueline became so violently agitated and distressed that at last, almost beside herself, Judith promised that for a few days, at least, she would say nothing about it.

Mrs. Temple was so full of Beverley, and the proceedings at Richmond, that she troubled Jacqueline but little with questions; and Judith was amazed at hearing Jacqueline describe to her mother a visit to her aunt, as if it had really been paid. The idea of concealment had taken complete possession of Jacqueline's mind, and she stopped at nothing.

Of course, the wedding had to be postponed; and Jacqueline surprised her mother, after two letters had passed between Throckmorton and herself, by telling her quite calmly one day that the wedding was off, and that Throckmorton would shortly leave the county. General and Mrs. Temple were stunned; and Mrs. Temple, who had secretly thought the marriage preposterous from the start, now suddenly changed front, and was bitterly disappointed at this strange and unaccountable breaking off. Jacqueline would only say, "I found I didn't love him, and couldn't marry him"; and she repeated this with a sort of childish obstinacy--so it seemed to Mrs. Temple. Throckmorton accepted his supposed bad news with the firmness and dignity that always characterized him. He told Mrs. Temple, when she and the general, sitting in solemn conclave in the drawing-room, had sent for him to give him this unalterable determination of Jacqueline's:

"Her happiness should be first always. The difference in our years I always felt; but, when she began to feel it, she was right in breaking with me. It is better that it should come now than later on."

Mrs. Temple was thoroughly puzzled by Throckmorton. She could not make out his quiet acquiescence in Jacqueline's decision--it was so unlike his usual vigorous way of overcoming obstacles. But, before he left, Freke had reappeared, and the dreadful truth had come to him and to Throckmorton and to Judith that, after all, according to the statutes of Virginia, he was not at liberty to marry again. Dreadful it was to Freke, who, light-minded and evil as he was, had really believed himself free, and whose implied doubt to Jacqueline was merely for the purpose of frightening her into submission. Freke went up to Richmond one day and returned the next. Half an hour's interview each with half a dozen lawyers had settled a hypothetical case that covered Freke's exactly: not all the clerks and licenses and ceremonies in Virginia could make his marriage to anybody good as it stood. It was true that there was an excellent chance that in the course of time various defects in the somewhat informal divorce proceedings that Freke had really thought sufficient might be remedied, and he would be a free man; but, for the present, he certainly was not.

Freke, who had thought his courage impeccable, found it failed him when he met Judith, for the first and last time, to settle upon the best course to pursue. Judith had Throckmorton's advice and assistance to back her up. Freke positively cowered under her gaze. It was settled that he was to go to the Northwest immediately, and devote all his energies to straightening out the strange tangle in which he had left his matrimonial affairs there; and, when it was settled, he was to return to Virginia, and then let Jacqueline decide what was to be done. He swore--and swore so that Judith believed him--that he thought himself a free man, and only despised the narrowness of people who believed there was no such thing as divorce. Why he should have fallen in love with Jacqueline did not puzzle Judith: had she not, with those irresistible glances of hers, ensnared a much stronger man? But one thing was decided as much by Jacqueline's agony of fear as anything else: nothing was to be said about the terrible complication to General and Mrs. Temple. Mrs. Steptoe's answer to Judith's letter gave a promise that nothing should be said about Jacqueline's non-appearance; and that removed any immediate danger of discovery. And, in a little while, both Freke and Throckmorton were gone--Freke, to move heaven and earth to get his divorce in proper shape; and Throckmorton, merely to be out of the way, and as far out of the way as possible.

To Judith it seemed as if the world were coming to an end. How a thing so dreadful, so unlike anything she had ever known before, could happen in their quiet lives, seemed more and more extraordinary. Here was Jacqueline--last year a child in heart, and now the first person in a tragedy. Never had she anything to conceal before; and now, with the most perfect art and premeditation, she was concealing, every day and hour, something that would be even more overwhelming to her father and mother than Beverley's death, and would convulse the little world in which they lived. As for the innumerable chances that it might be found out any day, Judith was abnormally alive to them. Every morning, when she went down-stairs, she half expected that the disclosure would come; every night she thanked Heaven it had been postponed a day.

Meanwhile Jacqueline, lying in her great four-poster, progressed slowly but gradually toward recovery. One night she called Judith to the bedside. She was fast getting well then.

"Judith," she said, "you know what queer notions I take? Well, I have been lying here thinking, thinking, perhaps you won't be able to keep the whole county from knowing about--"

The haunting fear of this never left Judith, but she could not but try and comfort Jacqueline.

"We will try--O Jacqueline, we will try!"

"And do you know it has troubled me even more than losing Freke; for I feel he is lost to me, even if he were to come to-morrow morning and say he was a free man; the fear that when I get well I shall be avoided; the people will leave me alone at church, and the county people will stop visiting us. That would indeed kill me."

"Dear child, we will hope and pray. I believe it would kill me too."

Jacqueline at this worked herself up into such a violent fit of weeping that Judith was frightened into giving her a great many more assurances of safety than her own anxious heart believed, but Jacqueline at last was quieted. In both of them, so widely unlike, was that profound respect for their neighbors, characteristic of simple and provincial souls. They knew no other world but that little neighborhood around Severn church, and its opinion was life or death.

But it troubled Judith that by degrees visitors began to fall off and inquiries ceased for Jacqueline. The temper and habit of the people were such that Judith knew Jacqueline could never hope for any forgiveness if that week's journey should be known. Jacqueline too, although she was entirely silent afterward upon the subject, was thinking and dreading and fearing. It was the custom for many kindly and neighborly visits to be paid the sick, many flowers and delicacies to be sent them; but after a while Jacqueline ceased to have either flowers or visitors. She was nearly well, though, or at least she protested that she was. But, although Jacqueline declared to Judith that, if Freke were legally free to-morrow, she would not marry him as long as that other woman lived, it was plain that he had completely captivated her imagination. She loved him in her own wild, unreasoning way. Judith was hourly amazed at the sudden self-control, finesse, the power to deceive, that Jacqueline developed regarding him. Usually her composure was perfect, but once in her own room, Jacqueline threw herself on the rug before the fire and wept and sobbed so that Judith was seriously alarmed. But, still trying to keep the burden from the unconscious father and mother, she remained with Jacqueline until a calm had come after the storm.

"I love him! I love him!" was all Jacqueline would say, and Judith believed her.

"You told me how I ought to love Throckmorton," she said that night, with a melancholy smile; "it is exactly how I love Freke. Don't look at me in that indignant way, Judith. It is not my fault."

Jack Throckmorton had remained at Millenbeck when his father left. Throckmorton had briefly announced to him that the wedding was off. Jack came at last to see them, looking very sheepish. Judith suspected that he came in obedience to Throckmorton's wishes. But Jacqueline at once slipped back into her old friendly way, if a little less gay and thoughtless than before. Jack sent her flowers, and would have brought his dog-cart over every day to take her to drive, so much touched was he by Jacqueline's illness, but Judith would not let him. Nevertheless, he was in and out of the house very much as he had been ever since that first night he was there. Judith, who had come to love him for his sweet, bright, boyish nature, he felt was his friend, as indeed everybody at Barn Elms was. The whole affair was intensely puzzling to Jack. He dared not show Throckmorton the awkward sympathy that he was struggling first to express and then to repress; but Jacqueline was young and ill, and had few pleasures, and he had once been a little gone on her, so it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should be kind to her.

There were mysterious hints, though, flying about the county regarding Jacqueline's affairs. Mrs. Sherrard was dying with curiosity, and made many visits to Barn Elms for the purpose of gratifying it. But she soon found out that, beyond knowing that Jacqueline had tired of her engagement and had thrown Throckmorton over, neither General nor Mrs. Temple knew anything to communicate. About this time, too, the party-giving fever, which was never long in abeyance with Mrs. Sherrard, seized her. A party she must give. General Temple brought a note to that effect, coupled with a request for Mrs. Temple's salad-bowls and ladles, one day from the post-office. Jacqueline, who had been out-of-doors several times and had quite given up her invalidism, showed the keenest and the most unexpected delight when she heard of the party. She jumped up and down, clapped her hands, and began to dance.

"Oh, how glad I am! It has been so stupid lately. I do want to dance again dreadfully. How I wish I could go to a ball every night in the week!"

Judith was surprised at Jacqueline's eagerness about the party. Mrs. Temple had first said decidedly that Jacqueline should not go, at which Jacqueline threw her hands up to her face and burst into such a passion of stormy weeping that Mrs. Temple was completely puzzled, and so was Judith.

"But, my child, you are not strong enough!"

"I am!--I am!" cried Jacqueline. "I will ask Dr. Wortley if I can't go to the party. I am sure I will cry myself ill if I don't go; and I am so well and strong."

Mrs. Temple, who had got a little indulgent to Jacqueline since her illness, agreed to leave it to Dr. Wortley. The next time he came over to pay a friendly visit, Jacqueline took him off to herself, and came back triumphant. Dr. Wortley had agreed. The old doctor had a queer look in his face.

"I consented, madam," he said to Mrs. Temple, "because this young lady promised me that she would make herself ill if she did not go; and I have known young women to keep that promise. She has given me her word she will be very prudent--will not overexert herself; and Mrs. Beverley is to watch her."

"And I'll come home the instant Judith proposes it!" cried Jacqueline.

Mrs. Temple finally agreed, upon condition that the weather was fit. For some days before the party it threatened to be very unfit. Dark clouds overhung the sky, and a biting March wind swept over the bare fields and through the somber aspens and Lombardy poplars, as yet leafless and wintry, around the house. Jacqueline seemed to have but one idea in her head, and that was the party. She haunted the windows where the cutting wind came in through the open chinks and crannies, until Judith warned her that she would soon begin to cough again, and worse, if she did not take care of herself. She pestered Simon Peter with asking for weather signs. When the morning broke, cloudy and overcast, Jacqueline was almost in despair; she could eat no breakfast, but sat at the table watching the clouds. Presently the sun came out upon the dreary landscape, and the sun in Jacqueline's eyes came out too. From the deepest gloom she passed to the wildest gayety. Her eyes shone; and taking little Beverley into the great, empty drawing-room, she waltzed around with him, singing and capering about until the boy, like herself, was in a gale of good humor. Judith had never ceased being puzzled by it. Still another obstacle, though, seemed to arise in Jacqueline's path. General Temple had a suspicion of gout, and declared that the party was out of the question for him. At this, Jacqueline looked so pale and disappointed that even Mrs. Temple's heart melted toward her.

"But I can take care of Jacqueline, mother," said Judith; "we are safe, you know, with Simon Peter on the box, and we will come home before twelve o'clock."

Mrs. Temple consented, and for the second time that day Jacqueline's spirits rose. Toward twilight, when the fires had been lighted in their rooms for the two girls to dress, for early hours prevail in the country, Judith went into Jacqueline's room. Jacqueline was twisting up her beautiful blonde hair into a knot on top of her head, taking infinite pains; her eyes were shining, her whole air one of quick expectancy.

"Why are you so anxious about this party, Jacqueline?" asked Judith, to whose lips the question had often risen during the last week.

"Wait a moment and I will tell you," replied Jacqueline, still intent on her hair.

Judith waited until the last tress was in place, and Jacqueline came over to the fireplace.

"Because--because, Judith, I have a feeling--I don't know where it comes from--that everybody knows about--" She stopped and cast down her eyes in a troubled way, but without blushing. "And I thought if I went to this party I would be convinced that it was all a mistake. I know it is very silly, but it has kept me awake at night ever since I was first ill, thinking how the people would eye me at church. You know how sick people take up those fancies. Well, I am determined to prove to myself it isn't so. Jack Throckmorton won't be at the party, but I shall no doubt have a plenty of partners, and this horrible feeling--that I am disgraced in some way--will leave me; I am sure it will. You know mamma's way of treating these notions. 'Just give your secret fears an airing, and see how they will disappear,' that's what I mean to do. Like ghosts, they vanish when you speak to them and try to handle them, and then you are rid of them for good."

Judith said not a word. The same horrible fear had been with her. Freke and Throckmorton were safe--General and Mrs. Temple suspected nothing--it made her sick at heart as she thought about the news traveling over the county.

When Jacqueline was dressed in the same white frock she had worn the evening she had captivated Throckmorton, she preened like a young peacock before the admiring eyes of Delilah and Simon Peter. She whirled round on her toes like a ballet-dancer. She courtesied to the ground, showing them how she would do at the party. She walked away from the little glass on her dressing-table, arching her neck and fluttering her fan.

"I allus did say Marse George Throckmorton wuz too ole fur little Miss Jacky," Simon Peter remarked to Delilah, after the performance. Delilah, who was bound to differ with Simon Peter, promptly took issue.

"Marse George, he ain' ole, he jes' in he prime. Dat's de way wid you wuffless niggers--call a man ole in he prime."

"But whar' _he_ gwi' be, when she in her prime? You heah me, 'oman?"

Delilah, for once, had no answer to make. The reflection had occurred to her.

As Judith and Jacqueline were jolted along the road, in the darkness, toward Turkey Thicket, both of them were reminded of that other party there, when Throckmorton had been present. Neither of them said anything, though. Judith, as she watched the shadowy trees slip past, began to think how strangely things had gone with her since then. Almost from that time she had felt a steady and ceaseless pain associated with Throckmorton. She then suffered, she thought, with him, and for him, although not one word had come from him since he had left the county, a month ago. Where was he? What was he doing at that very moment? Then she tried to fancy how it would have been with her had she seen daily before her Throckmorton and Jacqueline's married happiness. The sight of it would have been intolerable to her. "And nobody in the world suspects me of being the most impressionable, emotional, jealous, and miserable woman on earth," she thought to herself.

Jacqueline sat back in the carriage, occasionally speculating on who would be at the party, and how often she might dance without breaking Dr. Wortley's orders.

When they drove up to the door and got out, Jacqueline ran lightly up the steps, like her old self. Judith followed her. In Mrs. Sherrard's own comfortable old-fashioned room, where the ladies' wraps were removed, a number of girls about Jacqueline's age were laughing, chattering, getting their wraps off and their slippers on. Jacqueline ran up to them, and was about to join their circle; but by a slight, indescribable motion, they all drew back. It was a mere gesture, but it froze Jacqueline as she stood. She turned a frightened, piteous glance on Judith, who, with a flushed face, walked straight up to the little group.

"How do you do?" she said, calling each one by name, and holding out her hand. If there were any cloud upon the Temple family, she would force them to come out boldly and define it. Her fine nostrils dilated with anger--for not only was it her duty to stand by Jacqueline, but was not she, Judith, a Temple, too? And Judith had one of those proud and self-respecting souls to whom everything and everybody closely connected with her was due a certain deference. Something in her eye and manner commanded civility--then her greetings were answered even more cordially than she had given them.

But there was still an ominous change toward Jacqueline. The color had all dropped out of her face, and she had not recovered the plumpness she had lost during her illness. She looked nearer ugly than at any time in her whole life.

Judith was soon ready to go down-stairs. She no longer wore black dresses, but white ones. They were as severely simple as the black ones, though. She turned with Jacqueline following her, and went slowly out the door, and down the broad, old-fashioned stairs. In the large, uncarpeted hall, dancing was going on. As Judith, tall and stately in her white dress, holding gracefully a large white fan in her hands, passed through the hall, she was greeted with the hearty kindness she had always met with; but Jacqueline at her side, who was wont to run the gantlet of laughter and jokes and merry salutations, was met with a strange and distant politeness that blanched her face, and brought a glitter to Judith's usually soft eyes. She could have borne it better for herself; but for this unthinking child--this young creature Throckmorton loved--it was too much.

Mrs. Sherrard, with her diamond comb shining in her gray hair, and looking as she always did superbly dressed, without anything splendid about her, received them. In her there was no change. She met Jacqueline just as she always did.

"Why, little Jacky," she cried, "how glad I am to see you out again! You must let me see your little feet tripping about as if you had never been ill."

Jacqueline responded with a faint smile. Suppose she should not be asked to dance?

Judith, taking in at once this universal shyness shown toward Jacqueline, did not move from her side. People came up and spoke to them civilly enough, but chiefly the older people. Out in the hall beyond, the black fiddlers were scraping, and Jacqueline could see a large quadrille forming. But no partner appeared for her. Until the very last she hoped desperately. Never before had Jacqueline, in the few parties she had been to in her short life, failed to be asked to dance--she was so pretty, so undeniably captivating. She turned two despairing dark eyes and two pale cheeks on Judith. It was indeed cruel and heart-breaking. Jacqueline's evident anguish almost took away Judith's self-possession.

"Perhaps you will have better luck next time, dear," she whispered.

"No," replied Jacqueline, trembling, "I feel it. I know what it means. They all know it. Heavens! what do they think I am?"

The quadrille was soon over, but the time seemed interminable to Judith and Jacqueline. Some of the dancers, flushed and excited, were walking around the hall, while others, more indefatigable, whirled around in a waltz. It was all quite plain to Jacqueline, watching them with strange and miserable eyes. Was she then barred out forever from those people, and all for Freke, while even the happiness of being with him was denied her? Mrs. Sherrard, seeing Jacqueline sitting so still and quiet by Judith, came over to them.

"My dear, I see you are not dancing; shall I get you a partner?"

Mrs. Sherrard's sharp eyes saw something was amiss.

"No, please, Mrs. Sherrard," cried Jacqueline, in an eager voice. "I promised Dr. Wortley not to dance much; perhaps I will dance a little after a while."

But she did not. Nobody came near her to ask her; and even to Judith it was plain that people avoided them both. Most of the county people they knew came up and talked a little, but there was a changed atmosphere around them. Judith looked wonderingly at these people. In all the years they had lived in that county there had been nothing but neighborly kindness, good-will, and friendliness; and now, not one among them, seemed to feel the slightest spark of pity or charity for Jacqueline. They had all condemned her unheard. What version of the story had got abroad, she could not tell; but it was enough to blast the friendship of generations.

It was getting on, hour after hour.

"Shall we go home, Jacqueline?" whispered Judith.

"Not yet--not yet!" Jacqueline would answer, with trembling lips. She kept on hoping against hope. By that time everybody in the rooms had seen it all, except Mrs. Sherrard. She supposed she had done her best, coming up and talking to them incessantly; but, Jacqueline having refused a partner when offered one, Mrs. Sherrard naturally supposed she did not dance from preference, and accepted the idea that Dr. Wortley was responsible. It was past midnight before Jacqueline would agree to go. Judith, as stately, if paler and haughtier than ever in her life, went up to Mrs. Sherrard, made her farewells, and walked the whole length of the rooms, holding Jacqueline's hand. The poor child tried to hold her head up, inspired by Judith's courage, but it drooped, and she could not raise her eyes from the floor. A slight thrill of remorse seemed to come over those who saw her, at the piteous sight; but it was now too late. Jacqueline only longed to escape.

The instant they were in the carriage and alone, Jacqueline threw her arms around Judith and began to weep and sob desperately. Judith could only hold her to her heart and say: "Never mind, Jacqueline; if all the world should be against you, I would not be--nor Throckmorton."

But Jacqueline did not cease to sob and weep with a sort of despair that struck a chill to Judith's heart. She had never seen anybody weep so. When they reached home, Judith got her up-stairs to her room and undressed her, taking off the little chain around her neck that held the pearl pendant Jacqueline only wore on great occasions, uncurling the bright hair she had dressed so carefully, and laying away the simple white dress--Jacqueline's only ball-dress--that she had admired herself in so much. Jacqueline submitted, still sobbing a continual sob, that showed no signs of abatement. Judith put her in bed, turned out the lamp, and kissing her affectionately went out, thinking Jacqueline would soon cry herself to sleep.

An hour afterward Judith, who had keen hearing, fancied she heard a sound from Jacqueline's room. She went in softly. In the ghastly light that came through the closed shutters she saw Jacqueline sitting up in the great, white bed, still weeping.

"My darling," said Judith, taking the girl in her arms, "you will be ill!"

"Ill!" cried Jacqueline; "I am ill now--so ill, I never shall be well again! Judith, I can't live under this. I am going to die; and I am glad of it."

"Hush, hush! what nonsense are you talking?"

"Nonsense or not, those wicked people will see that they have killed me!"

Judith did not leave her any more, nor did Jacqueline sleep one moment, or cease her weeping. She held Judith tightly about the neck, and her warm tears dropped incessantly. Toward daylight Judith began to be alarmed. But nothing was to be done. It would simply break the hearts of the unconscious father and mother if they knew what had happened, and if she roused them they must know. Judith went to her own room and brought back some brandy, which she forced Jacqueline to take. In a little while it began to show its effect. Jacqueline stopped sobbing, and lay in the great dawn, with her face white and drawn and tear-stained. Judith, again hoping she might sleep, left her.

All that day Jacqueline lay in her bed dumb and motionless. Judith said the child was tired after the ball; perhaps she would get up later on. Mrs. Temple, supposing she was resting after her dissipation, did not go up to see her in the morning. In the afternoon, as Jacqueline showed no signs of getting up, Mrs. Temple went up to her. One look at her pallid face, and Mrs. Temple, calm and self-possessed as she usually was, almost shrieked, Jacqueline was so changed.

"Tell your master to come here at once!" she cried to Delilah.

General Temple came up-stairs, hurried and flurried, and felt for Jacqueline's pulse, but could detect no beating. And then Delilah owned up:

"Dat ar chile ain' tech a mou'ful dis day. I bring her up nice hot breakfus', an' she jes' tu'n her face ter de wall an' say, 'Go 'long, mammy, I c'yarn eat.' Now, huccome she c'yarn eat?"

"My daughter, what is the matter with you?" asked Mrs. Temple, anxiously.

Of late this half-forgotten child had been steadily forcing herself upon Mrs. Temple's notice.

"Nothing," answered Jacqueline, quietly.

But Jacqueline would not eat anything to speak of. In vain Mrs. Temple commanded, General Temple prayed her; Judith also pleaded with her, and Delilah--even little Beverley, climbing on the bed, said:

"Jacky, won't you eat a piece o' mammy's ash-cake if she bake it for you?"

Jacqueline smiled a faint smile that made Judith almost weep.

"I can't, dear," she said.

It was impossible to force her to eat, and the next morning Dr. Wortley was sent for. He came up in his cheery way; he had heard something of the Turkey Thicket party, but he would say no word to the anxious father and mother. He talked cheerfully to Jacqueline, without assuming to doctor her, and called her attention to the beautiful spring weather. It was March, but the air was as mild as April.

"All my hyacinths and jonquils are out," he said. "There is a bed in my garden that is protected on the north by a hedge and an arbor, and everything in that bed is a week ahead of the rest of the neighborhood. I will bring you everything that is blooming there to-morrow. By the way, what would you fancy to eat, Jacky?"

"I can't eat anything," replied Jacqueline, with quiet obstinacy.

Next day Dr. Wortley came again, with a great bunch of hyacinths and jonquils, and laid them on Jacqueline's bed. Her large and lusterless eyes gazed at them with indifference. Usually they danced with delight at the sight of flowers. Delilah put a spray of pink hyacinths in her hand.

"Doan' you 'member, honey, how you useter like dese heah hy'cints, an' plague yo' mammy when you wuz little ter plant 'em fur you?"

"Yes, I remember," said Jacqueline, calmly.

Judith and Mrs. Temple were present. Dr. Wortley said nothing about Jacqueline's refusing to eat, but talked away, telling all the neighborhood gossip. Then, in a careless way, he felt for Jacqueline's pulse and listened to the beating of her heart. Both were so faint that Dr. Wortley's eyes became grave. After he left the room, he beckoned to Mrs. Temple to follow him. Delilah came, too.

"Marse Doctor, she ain' tech nuttin' but a leetle bit o' toast an' tea since yistiddy, an' it wan' 'nough to keep a bird 'live, let 'lone a human."

Dr. Wortley wheeled round on his old enemy and snapped out:

"If you'll just use some of your persuasive eloquence and stuff her up with jellies and custards as you do your master when he ought to be living on tea and toast, she'll be all right."

Delilah flounced back into Jacqueline's room, her head-handkerchief bobbing about angrily. Mrs. Temple being present, she could not retaliate on Dr. Wortley.

"But, doctor," said Mrs. Temple, trembling strangely, "this is so unlike Jacqueline. I don't know what has been the matter with her lately. She isn't grieving for Throckmorton, but something is on her mind, that is--that is--"

The doctor waited, thinking Mrs. Temple would finish what she was saying. But she did not. This was, indeed, unlike Jacqueline--unlike any instance Dr. Wortley, in his simple experience, had ever known.

"Let her alone for a few days," he said. "We will see."

At the end of a few days Jacqueline had indeed consented to take enough food to keep life in her, but she had lost ground frightfully. Her round, girlish face was sharp and pinched.

Judith tried persuasion, to which Jacqueline responded, "How can I eat anything, when all night long I cry and cry, thinking of the hard-hearted people who--"

Then she stopped suddenly.

"Mise Judy," said Delilah, after a while, "I lay on de pallet by de baid, an' all night long I heah her cryin', jes' cryin' quiet--she doan' make no noise. I say: 'What de matter, honey? Tell yo' ole mammy dat nuss you?' an' she make 'tense den she 'sleep. But I know she ain' 'sleep--she jest distrusted at de way dem folks treat her at that ungordly party at Tuckey Thicket."

General and Mrs. Temple were anxious about Jacqueline, but by no means despairing. Neither of them thought that anybody could die without having anything ostensibly the matter. Judith, on the contrary, thought this the most alarming thing about Jacqueline. There she lay, steadily losing her hold on life, without any reason in the world that she should not be up and about--except, indeed, that sickness of the soul which saps the very foundations of life. This fear that Jacqueline was slipping away from them impelled her to write Throckmorton a few lines--guarded, but without disguising anything.

Meanwhile, the day that was to have been the wedding-day had come and gone. Jacqueline had not noticed it--she seemed to notice nothing in those days--but toward noon she said to Judith:

"I want to see my wedding-dress--to see if it is quite ruined."

Judith, without protesting, went and got it. She spread it out on the bed. It was rich and white and soft, and was beautiful with Judith's handiwork; but it was bloodstained in many places.

"That blood, I think, came from my heart," said Jacqueline; her eyes were soft and luminous. "I've been thinking about Throckmorton in the last two or three days--for the first time. I have been so busy with my own sorrow and Freke's that I haven't had time to think about anything else. Now, though, I want to see him--if he can get here in time."

"He will soon be here," answered Judith, folding up the dress. "I wrote him four days ago."

"That is so like you! None of the others know what I want, or will let me have my own way, but you."

And that very day Freke appeared.

The hatred that Judith had always felt for him was now intensified into a horror of him--he was the murderer of the poor child lying on her death-bed up-stairs--and she had thought her heart so hard toward him that nothing could soften it; but, strange as it might seem, she did soften toward him when she saw how acute was his misery.

Remorse was new to him. He had rather gloried in going against the antique notions and prejudices of the people in that shut-in, provincial place; but that anything tragic could come of it never really dawned upon him until he saw the terrible consequences before his eyes. He was, indeed, a free man, legally, when he came back; but the moral law, the social prejudice, stood like an everlasting wall between him and Jacqueline. Moreover, there could be no talk of marriage with Jacqueline then--she was the bride of death!

Judith herself told him this. Whether Jacqueline had ever had any deep hold upon him or not, there was no doubt of the sincerity of his grief and his remorse. He said but little, but one look at his changed and agitated face was enough. He asked to see her--a request Judith could not refuse. But the sight of him threw Jacqueline into such a paroxysm of agitation, that Judith almost forced him from the room. There was something a little mysterious about the whole thing, to General and Mrs. Temple, but mercifully they suspected nothing of the real state of affairs. After one more attempt to see Jacqueline, and the extreme agitation into which it threw her, it became plain that it could not be repeated. Jacqueline herself begged that she might not see him.

"Not that I don't love him--don't think that for a moment, Judith!" she cried; "but the sight of him nearly kills me. Then I am sorry that I am going to die--I am so sorry for myself that I feel as if I should cry myself into convulsions."

Judith tried gently to check this sort of talk, but Jacqueline, with a shadowy smile, laughed at her.

"Don't be silly, Judith--_you_ know how it is. All that I hope is, that those hard-hearted people will be sorry when they have killed me with their cruelty."

Freke, still coming every day, walked about the lower floor dismally. Jacqueline, whose senses became preternaturally sharp, soon recognized his footsteps. Even that unnerved her. Judith told him so kindly, and afterward he would sit motionless before the dining-room fire, always turning his head away from Jacqueline's little chair. Like Judith, he was clear-sighted about her. Of them all, General and Mrs. Temple were the only ones who would not or could not see that Jacqueline would soon be gone. Mrs. Temple had never seen anybody die without being ill, and could not believe that Jacqueline, who suffered no pain, should go. She had been in truth much frightened at the time of Jacqueline's illness; but, now, there was nothing to prevent her getting well except--except--

"That she is determined to die," Dr. Wortley inwardly remarked when Mrs. Temple talked to him in this way.

Jacqueline began to show a strange eagerness for Throckmorton's arrival. He was somewhere in the Northwest; but Jack, acting on his own responsibility, telegraphed his father, and put him on the track of Judith's letter.

The news of Jacqueline's illness had got abroad in the county, and something like remorse was felt by many who had seen her at the Turkey Thicket party. By degrees the impression that she was indeed in a bad way became general.

If Judith and Jacqueline had never loved Jack Throckmorton before, they would have loved him then. The sweetness, tenderness, and gentleness of the boy came out every day. There had always been an affinity between Jacqueline and him, and, as other ties weakened, this seemed to grow stronger. He never tired or bored or agitated her. Regularly he came twice a day, with flowers, or game, or with a new book. Dr. Wortley encouraged Jacqueline to see him, as it was plainly through her mind that her body must be cured. So every day Mrs. Temple or Judith would take Jack up to Jacqueline's room, and he would sit down by the bed and tell her his droll stories. Sometimes the ghost of a laugh would come from Jacqueline, and when, at parting, Jack would stand over her, holding her hand and saying, "Miss Jacky, I swear this is not to be stood for another day!--I'm coming over to-morrow to take you to drive!" Jacqueline would almost laugh aloud. Jack never mentioned Throckmorton to her, though; but one day, when he had brought her a great bunch of violets and narcissus, which had actually brought a little color to Jacqueline's cheeks, and had induced her to eat a piece of bread about as big as a silver dollar, he turned to Judith as he got out of the room: "The major is coming," he said, with an altogether different look in his handsome, boyish face. "I got a dispatch from him to-day. If he makes connections, he can be here by day after to-morrow."

"How glad I am--and how glad Jacqueline will be!" answered Judith.

For the first time, that day Judith had begun to hope that Jacqueline would get well. She had certainly brightened, and this strange interest in Throckmorton's arrival was encouraging. Perhaps, after all, she cared for him more than she thought--and if he came--

Till that day Jacqueline seemed to be brighter and better. The next day the weather turned suddenly cold and blustering, with violent gusts of snow and sleet. Jacqueline, who could see out of the window from her bed, seemed singularly depressed by the weather, although the pleasant, old-fashioned room was a nest of warmth and comfort.

Delilah sat in the great rush-bottomed chair by the sparkling fire, knitting, while Judith, with some work in her lap, sat close by the bed, and occasionally talked hopefully to Jacqueline.

"How sad it is!" presently said Jacqueline; "the peach-trees are all in bloom, and the buds will be killed by this snow--and the little hyacinths that are just coming up--all the young growing things will die to-day."

"Not the plants, dear--only the blossoms," replied Judith, cheerfully. "In a week they will have forgotten all about this snow."

"It is very sad," sighed Jacqueline.

All day Jacqueline seemed affected by the weather. Barn Elms, never a cheerful place at any time, was apt to be funereal when winter blasts swept the branches of the melancholy poplars and elms against the sides of the house, and when the wind howled amid the loosely built chimneys. A blackbird had begun building her nest in the tree nearest Jacqueline's window; and often, during the long days when she had lain in her bed, she had watched the bird flying and fluttering back and forth. The wind, which raged fitfully, came on stronger toward the afternoon. It lashed the still bare branches of the trees, beating them frantically about. The nest soon went. The poor bird, flying wildly around the place where it had been, was suddenly caught by a swaying branch, and, numbed with the cold, was dashed against the window. Jacqueline almost shrieked. Judith ran down-stairs, and out bareheaded in the sleet and snow, and found the bird--but it was already dead. When she went back, Jacqueline was crying.

"See how it is, Judith--everything that is young and weak will die in this weather."

A book lay on the bed beside Jacqueline--Jack Throckmorton had brought it over to her a day or two before. Jacqueline, laboriously--for she was very weak--turned over the pages and showed a paragraph to Judith:

"And the fire is lighted and the hall warmed, and it rains and it snows and it storms without. Then cometh in a sparrow and flieth about the hall. It cometh in at one door and goeth out at another. While it is within, it is not touched with the winter storm. _But that is only for a moment, only for the least space._"

Judith thought that Jacqueline, in her simplicity, had taken it literally; but she had not.

"Once, Throckmorton read some in this book to me. He said that meant human life--that little moment. Why can't people let other people be comfortable in that least space, instead of--of--killing them as--being so unkind to them?" Jacqueline stopped. Her mind was ever working on that deep resentment against her county people. "And Throckmorton, too," she continued, after a pause, "you know, Judith, how noble he is--and see how they have treated him!"

"My dearest," answered Judith, "you don't understand. These people are really kind and tender-hearted; but they move very slowly--and they have queer prejudices--notions--that they will die with, and die for, I think; but don't think about that--think about getting well, and running about again with Beverley. You ought to see him, trotting around down-stairs, saying: 'Where is my Jacky? I want my Jacky.' He was so naughty to-day that Delilah threatened to whip him, and even mother had to take a stand against him. He is getting thoroughly spoiled while I am up here with you."

Jacqueline smiled slightly, but soon returned to watching the gloomy day without. At twilight she would not have the shutters closed, but lay striving to catch the last fading glimpses of the somber daylight. Judith began to feel an intense longing for Throckmorton to come. Jacqueline, too, who had been so strangely forgetful and neglectful of Throckmorton until lately, had asked a dozen times that day, when it was possible for him to get there, and what if he should miss the boat, and many other questions. About seven o'clock Judith went down to tea, leaving Delilah with Jacqueline.

Delilah, sitting up black and solemn, listened to Jacqueline's faint and sorrowful talk.

"Doan' you fret, honey, 'bout dem blackbirds, an' dem peach-blossoms, an' dem little lambs out in de cold. De Lord gwi' teck keer on 'em. He gwi' meck de sun ter shine, an' de win' ter blow; an' He gwi' down in de rain an' de gloomerin' fur ter fin' de po' los' sheep. He ain' gwi' lef 'em out d'yar ter deyselves. He gwi' tote 'em home outen' de rain an' de darkness."

"Do you think so, mammy?"

"I knows hit, chile."

Down-stairs, General and Mrs. Temple, with little Beverley and Judith, were all that were present around the table. Not yet even had Mrs. Temple begun to be alarmed about Jacqueline, who had not had a pain or an ache.

Jacqueline's vacant chair struck Judith more painfully than usual. Scarcely had she taken her place at the table, when she saw Delilah peer in at the door, a queer, ashy tinge over her black face. Judith rose and went out quietly, Mrs. Temple looking surprised, but saying nothing. Judith, Mrs. Temple thought, coddled Jacqueline rather too much for her own good, so Kitty Sherrard and Dr. Wortley both said.

"Miss Judy," whispered Delilah, "Miss Jacky is a-gwine--she done start on de road--"

Judith, without a word, flew up-stairs. Jacqueline lay, scarcely breathing, her face perfectly white, her dark and beautiful eyes wide open. Judith raised her up, Jacqueline protesting feebly.

"Judith, it is come! I feel it. I am not at all frightened. It was those cruel people at Mrs. Sherrard's party--"

"Don't--don't say that, Jacqueline! You are only a little faint and discouraged. Here is Delilah coming."

"Tell Throckmorton I tried to live until he came, but my breath won't hold out any longer, and my heart has scarcely beat at all for a week, it seems to me."

Judith made a sign to Delilah to go for Mrs. Temple. Scarcely was she out of the room, before Jacqueline's head fell back on Judith's shoulder. Judith, brave as she was, began to tremble and to weep.

"I did so want to see Throckmorton, to tell him something. I wanted to say to him--Judith--"

Mrs. Temple came in swiftly, followed by the general. Jacqueline had strength enough left to hold out a thin little hand. A smile like moonlight passed over her face. She gasped once, and all was over.