CHAPTER VIII.

A day or two after this, however, came a snow, deep and lasting, more like a midwinter snow in New England than a December flurry in lower Virginia. For four weeks the sun scarcely shone, and the earth was wrapped in white. The roads were impassable, the river-steamers stopped running, and the mails were delayed for days at a time. The country people were much cut off from each other. Mrs. Temple missed four successive Sundays at church--a thing she had never done in her life before. Nobody could get to Barn Elms except the Throckmortons and Freke, but they came often in the evenings. Throckmorton saw what was before him with Jacqueline, yet held back, as engineers put down the brakes on a wild engine on a down grade--it does not, however, materially alter the result. He sometimes thought, with a sense of the grotesqueness of human affairs, how strange it was that things had not arranged themselves so that Jack had not been Jacqueline's victim, and himself Judith's. For Jack was undeniably fond of Jacqueline, and so far did not in the slightest degree suspect his father's infatuation, as Throckmorton frankly and bitterly acknowledged it to be. As for Judith, Nature leaves no true woman unarmed for suffering like hers. Even Jacqueline, who was sharp-eyed, only noticed that Judith at this time was, if anything, a little sweeter and kinder than before--even a little more gay. Little Beverley found his mother better company than usual, and more ready for a romp than ever before. The child, whom she had thought everything to her before, became now more passionately dear to her. Alone with him, she would take him in her arms and hold him close to her; she felt an actual softening of the pain at her heart when the child's curly head rested over it. Then she would talk to him in a way the child only half understood, as he gazed at her with grave, mystified eyes, and, while laughing at his childish wonder, she would almost smother him with kisses. Judith was positively becoming merry. In her voice was a ring, in her eyes a light that was different from that calm, untroubled composure that had once marked her. Her manner to Throckmorton was perfect; the same gentle gayety, the same graceful dignity. She did not avoid him; pain wrung no such concession from Judith Temple. But Judith's invincible cheerfulness was strangely antagonized by Jacqueline. Jacqueline, who talked to her own heart in a very primitive, open fashion, was vexed at the notion that, in order to be mistress of Millenbeck, she would have to marry Throckmorton. How much nicer, thought Jacqueline, with great simplicity, if it were Jack who gave her those looks, those words, who had pressed that kiss upon her hand! Throckmorton was too old, and had too much sense; Jacqueline made no secret in acknowledging that mature men of sense bored and restrained her. It was very hard, she thought, disconsolately. Ever since that dinner at Millenbeck, Barn Elms had appeared shabbier and sorrier than ever before. Although Mrs. Temple continued to have five kinds of bread for breakfast, and had invited a regiment of poor relations to spend the coming summer with her, under the Virginia delusion that it costs nothing to harbor a garrison for an indefinite time, things were certainly going very badly at Barn Elms; a condition of affairs, though, to which General Temple was perfectly accustomed, and who knew no other way of paying Peter than by robbing Paul. The old carriage went all to pieces just about that time, and there was no money to buy another one. As for a new piano, that was an impossible dream; and there were two splendid new pianos at Millenbeck, and not a soul to touch them! And Jacqueline wanted a new frock, and endless other things, which were distinctly out of the question, and the only way to get them, that she could see, was to encourage Throckmorton's attentions and be mistress of Millenbeck. All this was not lost on Freke, who, with his eyes open, began to play with Jacqueline, and like Throckmorton got his wings scorched. The girl certainly had a power of compelling love. Had Judith ever relented toward Freke, Jacqueline would have had cause for jealousy if she loved him. But, in truth, as it came to pass, Freke cast as much of a spell upon Jacqueline as she did upon him. If Freke owned Millenbeck, instead of that wretched old Wareham, that actually was not as good as Barn Elms! So Jacqueline fretted to herself.

The loneliness of those cold, snowy days was killing to Jacqueline. The long afternoons when she sat by the drawing-room fire and dreamed dreams, were almost intolerable to her. When she heard Beverley's shouts, as Judith romped with him in the cold hall, and hid from him in the dusk until the child set up a baby cry, it was the only living cheerful noise about the house. Judith would come to her and say, "Now, Jacky, for a walk in the hall!" Jacqueline would answer fretfully:

"What do I want to walk for?"

"Because it is better than sitting still."

Judith would take her by the waist and run her up and down the long, dusky hall. It was so cold they shivered at first, and the rattling of the great windows let icy gusts of air in upon them; and sometimes the moon would glare in at them in a ghastly way. Presently they would hear Simon Peter bringing in wood for the night by the back way, shaking the snow off his feet, and announcing to Delilah: "I tell you what, ole 'oman, 'tis everlastin' cole an' gwine ter keep so, fer I seed de hosses in de stable kickin' de lef' hine-foots; an' dat's sho' an' suttin sign o' freezin'."

"You better kick dat lef' hine-foot o' yourn, an' stop studyin' 'bout de hosses, fo' mistis come arter you! Ez long ez ole marse holler at you, you doan' min'; but jes' let mistis in dat sof' voice say right fine, 'Simon Peter!' I lay you jes' hop," was Delilah's wifely reply.

General Temple, confined to the house by the weather, drew military maps with great precision, and worked hard upon his History of Temple's Brigade. The fact that he knew much more about the Duke of Marlborough's campaigns, or Prince Eugene's, or anybody's, in fact, than he did about any he had been directly engaged in, in no wise set him back. Mrs. Temple, who thought the general a prodigy of military science, was rejoiced that he had something to divert him through the long wintry days, when Barn Elms was as completely shut in from even the little neighborhood world as if it were in the depths of a Russian forest. Jack Throckmorton, who after a while began to see that the major was certainly singed, as he expressed it to himself, did not carry out his usual tactics of making his vicinity too hot for his father, but when he wished to see Jacqueline went over in the mornings. If the weather was tolerable, they were pretty sure to find their way to the ice-pond. Jack, carrying on his arm a little wooden chair, and putting Jacqueline in it, would push it over the ice before him as he sped along on skates. Then Jacqueline's fresh, young laugh would ring out shrilly--then she was happy. Sometimes Judith and Throckmorton, smiling, would watch them. Jack liked Mrs. Beverley immensely, but he confided to Jacqueline that he was a little afraid of her--just as Jacqueline candidly admitted she was in awe of Major Throckmorton. Throckmorton, watching this childish boy and girl fun, would sometimes laugh inwardly and grimly at himself. How true was it, as Mrs. Sherrard had said, that Jacqueline would make a good playmate for Jack! And then he would turn to Judith, and try to persuade himself of her sweetness and truth. But love comes not by persuasion.

Jack had been giving Jacqueline glowing accounts of the sleigh-rides he had had in the Northwest. Jacqueline was crazy for a sleigh-ride, but there was no such thing as a sleigh in the county. One evening, after tea, as Jacqueline sat dolefully clasping her knees and looking in the fire, and Judith, with hands locked in her lap, was doing the same; Mrs. Temple knitting placidly by the lamp, while General Temple held forth on certain blunders he had discovered in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand--a strange tinkling sound was heard far--far away--almost as if it were in another world! Jacqueline sat perfectly still and gazed into Judith's eyes. Judith got up and went into the hall. A great patch of moonlight shone through the uncurtained window, and outside it was almost as light as day. The limbs and trunks of the great live-oaks looked preternaturally dark against the white earth and the blue-black, star-lit sky. Suddenly Simon Peter's head appeared cautiously around the corner of the house, and in a minute or two he came up the back way and planted himself at Judith's elbow.

"Gord A'mighty, Miss Judy, what dat ar'? What dem bells ringin' fur? I 'spect de evils is 'broad. I done see two Jack-my-lanterns dis heah night."

Judith fixed her eyes on the long, straight lane bordered with solemn cedars; she saw a dark object moving along, and heard the sharp click of horses' shoes on the frozen snow.

"It's somebody coming," she said, and in a moment, she cried out joyfully:

"O Jacky, come--come! it's a sleigh--I see Jack Throckmorton driving--Major Throckmorton is there--and there are four seats!"

Jacqueline jumped up and ran out. She had never seen a sleigh in her life, and there it was turning into the drive before the house. Jack had the reins, and the major's two thoroughbreds were flying along at a rattling pace, and the bells were jingling loudly and merrily. Jacqueline almost danced with delight. By the time the sleigh drew up at the door, Simon Peter was there to take the reins, and Throckmorton and Jack jumped out and came up the steps. The general and Mrs. Temple were also roused to come out and meet them. As the hall-door swung open, a blast of arctic air entered. Throckmorton's dark eyes looked black under his seal-skin cap. Jack plunged into business at once.

"Now, Mrs. Temple, you must let me take Miss Jacqueline for a spin to-night; never saw better sleighing in my life. The major's along, and you know he is as steady as old Time"--the major at heart did not relish this--"and, if Mrs. Beverley will go, it will be awfully jolly."

Mrs. Temple began some mild protest: it was too cold, or too late, or something; but for once Jacqueline did not hear her, and bounded off up-stairs for her wraps. Even Judith, usually so calm, was a little carried away by the prospect.

"Come, mother, Major Throckmorton and I will take care of them."

Mrs. Temple yielded.

"I will take care of Beverley while you are gone," she said, and Judith blushed. Was she forgetting the child?

In five minutes both of them were ready. Judith had pressed her soft cheeks to Beverley's as she leaned over the sleeping child. Surely nobody could say she was a forgetful mother.

The sleigh was Jack's. He had sent away and bought it, and it had arrived that evening. Jacqueline sat on the front seat with him, her face glowing with smiles on the clear, cold night, as he wrapped the fur robes around her. Throckmorton did the same for Judith. For once she had left off her widow's veil, and for once she forgot that secret pain and determined to be happy. Jack touched up the horses, and off they flew. As for Jacqueline and himself, their pleasure was of that youthful, effervescing sort that never comes after twenty-five; but Throckmorton and Judith began to feel some of the exhilaration and excitement. Throckmorton had lately heard Mrs. Sherrard's views about Judith's marriage, and it had made him feel a very great pity for her.

"Where are we going?" cried Jacqueline, as they dashed along.

"Anywhere--nowhere--to Turkey Thicket!" replied Jack, lightly touching the flying horses with his whip.

"We will frighten Mrs. Sherrard to death!" said Judith, from the back seat, burying her face in her muff.

It was not a time to think about anybody else, though. The five miles to Turkey Thicket sped away like lightning. When they dashed through the gate and drew up before the house, half a dozen darkies were there gaping; and Mrs. Sherrard, with a shawl thrown over her head, was standing in the doorway, and standing behind her was Freke.

As they all got out, laughing, huddling, and slipping up the stone steps, Mrs. Sherrard greeted them with her characteristic cordiality, demanding that they should take off their wraps before they were half up the steps. She gave Throckmorton a comical look, and whispered to him as he shook hands with her: "Out with the Sister of Charity, hey? Or is it the child Jacky?" Throckmorton laughed rather uneasily. He had never got over that remark of Mrs. Sherrard's about Jacqueline being a playmate for Jack.

They all went trooping into the dining-room, where a huge fire blazed. Mrs. Sherrard called up her factotum, a venerable negro woman, Delilah's double, and in ten minutes they were sitting around the table laughing and eating and drinking. The colored factotum had brought out a large yellow bowl, a big, flat, blue dish, and a rusty bottle. Eggs and milk followed.

"Egg-nog," whispered Jack to Jacqueline.

So it was. Freke broke up the eggs, and Mrs. Sherrard, with a great carving-knife, beat up the whites, while she talked and occasionally flourished the knife uncomfortably near Freke's nose. Throckmorton poured in the rum and brandy with such liberality that Judith with great firmness took both bottles away from him. The egg-nog was a capital brew. Then Freke produced his violin, and saying, "Hang your Brahms and Beethovens!" dashed into waltzes of Strauss and Waldteufel that made the very air vibrate with joy and gayety and rhythm. Jack seized Jacqueline, and, opening the door, they flew out into the half-lighted hall and spun around delightedly. As Freke's superb bow-arm flashed back and forth, and the torrent of melody poured out of the violin, his eyes flashed, too. He did not mean to play always for Jacqueline to dance.

Judith, standing at the door, watched the two young figures whirling merrily around in the half-light to the resounding waltz-music. She was altogether taken by surprise when Throckmorton came up to her, and said, half laughing and half embarrassed:

"My dancing days are over, but that waltz is charming."

Judith did not quite take in what he meant, but without a word he clasped her waist, and she was gliding off with him. Throckmorton would have scorned the characterization of a "dancing man," but nevertheless he danced well, and Judith moved like a breeze. She went around the big hall once--twice--before the idea that it was inconceivably wicked of her to dance with Throckmorton came to her; not, indeed, until she saw Freke's wide mouth expanded into a smile that was infuriating. And then, what would Mrs. Temple say to her dancing at all?

"Oh, pray, stop!" she cried, blushing furiously. "I can't dance any more; I ought never to have begun. I haven't danced for--for years."

Throckmorton stopped at once, with pity in his eyes. He suspected the sort of angelic dragooning to which she was subject from his dear Mrs. Temple.

"Why shouldn't you dance?" he said. "I see you like it. Come, let's try it again. I'm a little rusty, perhaps, but we got on famously just now." But Judith would not try it again.

Freke now meant to have his innings.

"Do you know this is Twelfth-night--the night for telling fortunes?" he said, laying down his violin.--"Come, Jacky, let me take you out of doors and show you the moon and tell yours."

"In this snow!" screamed Mrs. Sherrard; but by that time Freke had thrown a shawl over Jacqueline's head, and had dragged her out of the room, and the hall-door banged loudly after them.

Outside, in the cold, white moonlight and the snow, Freke pointed to the moon.

"Now make your wish," he said; "but don't wish for Millenbeck."

Jacqueline's face could turn no redder than it was, but she looked at Freke, and answered on impulse, as she always did:

"Millenbeck is finer than Barn Elms--"

"Or Wareham," responded Freke, fixing her attention with a stare out of his bold eyes. "See here, Jacqueline, I know how it is. You think you will be able to put up with Throckmorton for the sake of Millenbeck. My dear, he is old--"

"He is only forty-four," answered Jacqueline, defiantly.

"And you are only twenty-one. You would be happier even at Wareham with me, than at Millenbeck with Throckmorton."

"I couldn't be happy in a five-roomed house," quite truthfully said Jacqueline.

"Yes, you could. I could make you forget whether it had five or ten rooms."

At this, he put two fingers under her chin, and, tilting up her rosy face, kissed her on the mouth. "Come!" cried Freke, after a little while, remembering how time was flying, which Jacqueline had evidently forgotten, and making for the steps; but Jacqueline stopped him with a scared face.

"Aren't you married, Freke?" she asked.

"Not a bit of it," answered Freke, stoutly. "Don't you believe all the old women's tales you hear about me, Jacky. I'm no more married than you are this minute. I have been, I admit, but I slipped my head out of the noose some time ago. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," answered Jacqueline, who could believe anything, "if--if--people can really be divorced."

They had not been gone ten minutes, when they returned, yet Freke saw a danger-signal flying in Judith's cheeks. She did not mean to have any more of this. Mrs. Sherrard, who had become an active partisan of Freke's, asked, as soon as they came in:

"What wish did you make, Jacky?"

Jacqueline started. She had made no wish at all.

"Freke ran me out of the house so fast," she began complainingly, "I was perfectly out of breath."

"And of course couldn't make a wish," said Jack Throckmorton, laughing.

"I wished for everything," replied Jacqueline.

Presently they were driving home through the still, frosty night. Judith felt a complete reaction from the ghost of merriment that had possessed her in going that road before. Even Throckmorton noticed the change. She laughed and talked gayly, but her speaking eyes told another story. Throckmorton could not but smile, and yet felt sorry, too, when Jacqueline, fancying herself unheard, whispered to Judith:

"I won't tell mamma about the waltz."

But Jacqueline was absent-minded too. When they had got home and had gone up-stairs, instead of Jacqueline following Judith to her room, as she usually did when she had anything on her mind, she went straight to her own room, and, locking the door, began to walk up and down, her hands behind her back. How strange, fascinating, overpowering was Freke, after all! Was a divorced man really a married man? Divorces were dreadful things, she had always known--but--suppose, in some other world than that about the Severn neighborhood, it should be considered a venial thing? Jacqueline became so much interested in these puzzling reflections that she unconsciously abandoned the cat-like tread which she had adopted for fear of waking her mother, and stepped out in her own brisk way up and down the big room. Mrs. Temple, hearing this, quietly opened her own chamber-door beneath. That was enough. The walk stopped as if by magic, and in ten minutes Jacqueline was in bed.