When Jacqueline was dressed in the same white frock she had worn the evening she had captivated Throckmorton, she preened like a young peac.o.c.k 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 gla.s.s on her dressing-table, arching her neck and fluttering her fan.

"I allus did say Ma.r.s.e 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.

"Ma.r.s.e George, he ain' ole, he jes' in he prime. Dat's de way wid you wuffless n.i.g.g.e.rs--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 a.s.sociated 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 n.o.body 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, pa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.ping, 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. n.o.body 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 a.s.suming 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.