So I took the train all alone, and made the boat, and landed at Oak Point about twelve o'clock. I pretended to be surprised that n.o.body was there to meet me, and said I would walk as far as Turkey Thicket--you know it is only a little way from the landing. But, of course, I did not. Then I was so afraid that some one would see me that, instead of taking the main road, I came through the fields and by-paths. I believe I have walked ten miles instead of six, from Oak Point--and it was raining, too. I was nearly frightened out of my life--frightened by negroes and stray dogs, and afraid that I should see Freke every moment before me, and, if he should overtake me, I knew I should go back with him. I can no more resist him when he is with me than I can stop breathing. Well, with weakness--for I felt ill from the moment I started--and with fear, and being so tired, and the rain, I thought I should die before I reached here. But now I am home--home!--"

Jacqueline's voice rose in a piteous cry. She had been weeping all the time, but now she burst into a perfect tempest of sobs and tears that shook her like a leaf.

In her quiet life Judith had never been brought face to face with any terrible emergency, and this one unnerved and horrified her so that for a time she was as helpless as Jacqueline. She walked the floor, struggling with the wild impulse to send for Throckmorton; that he alone could tell them what to do; and else she and the poor child would sink under the horror of the situation, for to her simple and straightforward mind both conscience and the social code were unalterably opposed to considering a divorced man as a single man. But some instinct of common sense saved her--saved her even from calling Delilah, and caused her to face the thing alone. She gave Jacqueline brandy, she rubbed her vigorously; she even got her up-stairs alone and into her bed. By that time the violence of her emotions was spent; Jacqueline lay in the large four-poster perfectly calm and white. After a while even a sense of physical well-being seemed to possess her; warmth and light and stimulation had their effect. She fell into a heavy sleep, but Judith was terrified to notice her pallor give place to a crimson flush on her face, and her icy hands grow burning hot. By that time Judith's composure had partly returned. She called Delilah, who came in wondering, and told her briefly that Jacqueline had come home unexpectedly and was not well, without mentioning how she had come from the river-landing. Delilah, who was not of a curious turn, saw for herself that part of Judith's statement was true, for Jacqueline had a burning fever. It was impossible to get Dr. Wortley before morning, but, like most women who live in the country, Judith could cope with ordinary ailments, and, whenever the doctor was called in, he always found that the proper thing had been done beforehand.

But, besides Jacqueline's undeniable illness, the thought that tormented Judith was how to keep the dreadful thing that had happened from Jacqueline's father and mother and from the world. It must inevitably come out that she had not been near Mrs. Steptoe's, and only the fact that Jacqueline was a poor correspondent had kept it from being known already. On the impulse of the moment, Judith sat down and wrote Mrs.

Steptoe a letter, begging her, for General and Mrs. Temple's sake, not to mention until she heard further from Barn Elms, that Jacqueline had not been with her; and as she wrote hurriedly and nervously, she could hear Jacqueline's heavy and fitful breathing. Some simple remedies had been applied, but Judith knew that the best thing for her was to sleep, and so her troubled slumber was undisturbed except by her own feverish mutterings. All the time it hung like a sword over Judith. "What will Throckmorton say?" for, of course, he must be the first one to know it; there could be no mercy in deceiving him. Judith, sitting before the fire, gazing into it with troubled eyes and aching heart, began thinking, pitying, praying for Throckmorton. Yes, it would be a frightful blow to him. There would be no need for the wedding-gown now.

As this thought occurred to her, Judith rose and, going softly toward the wardrobe where she kept her dainty work, took out the dress, and, unwrapping it from the white cloth in which she laid it away so carefully every night, spread it over her knees. How much love, despair, and torture had been worked into that embroidery! "It is so pretty, it is a pity it can't be used," she said to herself, absently, turning the silk about in her fingers; and at that moment she heard a choking, gurgling sound from the bed. Jacqueline was half sitting up, her head supported on her arm, and a thin stream of blood was trickling from her lips.

Judith, who for once lost her presence of mind, ran toward the bed, and, supporting Jacqueline's head, called loudly for help. In her haste she had thrown the dress almost across Jacqueline, and a few drops of blood fell upon it.

"Look, look!" gasped Jacqueline; "my dress is being ruined!"

Judith heard Delilah running up the stairs in response to her frightened call, but Jacqueline's eyes had such a strange expression in them that she asked her involuntarily, as she tremblingly supported her:

"Jacqueline, do you know me?"

"Perfectly," answered Jacqueline. "I know everything about me."

Delilah, who was a natural-born nurse, was as calm as Judith was agitated.

"'Tain' nuttin' tall, chile; 'scusin' 'tis er leetle speck o' blood fum yo' th'oat. I kin stop it righter way"; and, sure enough, in ten minutes she had applied some simple remedy and the blood ceased to flow.

Meanwhile Jacqueline, unable to speak, had motioned eagerly and violently to Judith to remove the white silk dress. Judith threw it on a chair. Jacqueline's eyes filled with tears.

"It is such a pity to have it ruined--and one's wedding-dress, too!"

"Hush-hush! you must not talk," cried Judith.

The flow of blood apparently was a trifle, and in a little while Jacqueline lay back in the great, old-fashioned bed silent, deadly white, but composed.

Judith, with overflowing eyes, folded up the white dress, but she could not prevent some tears falling on it, and the dress, already stained with blood, was also stained with tears. The thought of Jacqueline, though, could not banish the thought of Throckmorton; the more so when Jacqueline, beckoning, brought Judith close to her. Judith thought she wanted something for her comfort.

"_You_ must tell him; he will take it better from you."

Jacqueline, lying wide awake in the bed, and Judith, sitting by her, holding her hand, were both expectant of Throckmorton. At last, about half-past eight, his firm step was heard on the porch. Judith's heart leaped into her mouth; she did not exactly take in all the bearings of what Jacqueline had told her, or whether she was or was not married to Freke; and Throckmorton, with his knowledge of affairs, would know all.

She rose silently and went down-stairs, leaving Delilah with Jacqueline.

Throckmorton was standing before the fire in the drawing-room. There was something in his determined eye and in his tone as he spoke to her that struck a chill to Judith's heart.

"Jacqueline, has come, you know," she said.

"Yes, Simon Peter told me so at the door. It does not surprise me."

Judith remained silent for a few moments, when Throckmorton, suddenly wheeling toward her, and looking her straight in the face, said, curtly:

"What is all this? She never was near Mrs. Steptoe's. I found out, by having my letter returned to me by Mrs. Steptoe herself. What has made her ill? Don't tremble so, but tell me--you know I have a right to know it all."

But Judith continued to be silent and to tremble. She even began to weep; but Throckmorton, taking her hand, said, firmly:

"There must be no concealments."

His own stern composure controlled Judith's agitation.

"All?" she asked, faintly.

"Yes--all!" he answered.

When Throckmorton used an authoritative tone with her, he could always compel her; and so, scarcely knowing how she did it, with tears and sobs, and faint deprecations for Jacqueline, she told him all. She noticed Throckmorton's dark skin growing paler and paler; he began to gnaw his iron-gray mustache--always a sign of extreme agitation with him.

"Now, tell me this--collect your thoughts and don't cry so--does she--does she love that--" He could not bring himself to utter Freke's name.

Judith remained silent. Throckmorton, in his determination to make her answer, seized her arm. It hurt her so that she could have cried out, but she made no sound.

"Tell me!" he said, in a voice and manner so unlike his own gentle courtesy, that Judith could scarcely have recognized it. But Judith was obstinately silent. Nevertheless, she lifted her eyes to his with so eloquent a plea for mercy for Jacqueline, that he was unconsciously softened.

"You will not tell me!" he said, relaxing his fierce hold. "I can't make you answer--you have a spirit like a soldier. But it makes no difference now whether she loves him or not. If she were free to-morrow, I could kill her with my own hands easier than I could marry her!--and yet--I loved her well."

"But," cried Judith, putting her hand on his arm in her eagerness, "something must be done. It must be managed so that people shall not know it, until her father and mother have decided what is to be done. It will almost kill them!"

"Yes. But if you can manage with Mrs. Steptoe--"

"I have already written to her."

"I am no lawyer, but it seems to me that it rests with Jacqueline whether it is a marriage or not. But General and Mrs. Temple would rather see her in her grave than married to any divorced man--and to him!"

"And there is a good deal of doubt about his divorce, I believe," added Judith.

"There is at present nothing to be done. General and Mrs. Temple will no doubt be here as soon as possible; it is hardly worth while to alarm them. Is she very ill, do you think?"

"I don't know--Jacqueline was always delicate. And--what of him--of Freke?" continued Judith, in a trembling voice. "Is there to be no punishment for him?"

Like a woman, Judith could not look at the case in its practical light; but like a man, Throckmorton, in the midst of his horror, grief, and surprise, yet retained his balance.

"Any punishment of him would react on her--to have her name made public with his--Good G.o.d! But there is no power on earth to keep General Temple from committing some frightful folly when he knows of it."

This was a new horror to Judith. A painful pause followed. Then Judith said:

"How like Freke it was--how perfectly reckless of consequences! He is unlike any man I ever saw or heard of. I believe, in his strange way, he loves Jacqueline; but what does any one know of such a man!"

The absence of vindictiveness toward Freke, on Throckmorton's part, surprised Judith; but, in truth, he scarcely thought of Freke: a creature as weak and impressionable as Jacqueline was bound to succ.u.mb to the first overmastering influence. Throckmorton himself had never been able to get any real influence over her. Presently Judith said:

"One thing I do know--she wants your forgiveness."

"She has it, poor child!"

Then there was another pause. Throckmorton, after a while, rose to go.

"If you want anything, send for me. I shall be over early in the morning." He hesitated a moment, and then said: "This has been a strange experience for me; but it is over--" And then, as if checking a confession, went out of the room and out of the house.

When Judith went up-stairs, Jacqueline was still sleeping, but presently she wakened, and turned her lovely, troubled eyes on Judith.