For a week after the party Jacqueline lived in a kind of dream. She
could do nothing but talk of the party. The whole current of her life
had been disturbed. Since this one taste of excitement there was no
satisfying her. The daily routine was going down to a solemn breakfast,
and then getting through the forenoon as best she might, with her
flowers, and her pets among the ducks and chickens, and romping with the
little Beverley--for this unfortunate Jacqueline had no regular
employments--and then the still more solemn three o'clock dinner, after
which she practiced fitfully on the wheezy piano in the dark
drawing-room; then a country walk with Judith, if the day was fine,
coming back in time to watch the creeping on of the twilight before the
sitting-room fire. This was the happiest time of the day to Jacqueline.
She would sit flat on the rug, clasping her knees, and gazing into the
fire until her mother would say, with a smile:
"What do you see in the fire, Jacky?"
"Oh, endless things--a beautiful young man, and a new piano, and a
diamond comb like Mrs. Sherrard's, and--Oh, I can't tell you!"
"Miss Jacky she see evils, I know she do," solemnly announced Simon
Peter. "When folks sits fo' de fire studyin' 'bout nuttin' 'tall, de
evils an' de sperrits dat's 'broad come sneakin' up ahine an' show 'em
things in de fire."
General Temple, a few days after the party, fell a victim to a seductive
pudding prepared by Delilah, and was immediately invalided with the
gout. Dr. Wortley was sent for, and at once demanded to know what
devilment Delilah had been up to in the way of puddings and such, and
soon found out the true state of the case. A wordy war ensued between
Dr. Wortley and Delilah, and the doctor renewed the threat he had been
making at intervals for twenty-five years.
"Temple," he screeched, "you may take your choice between that old
ignoramus and me--between ignorance and science!"
"Ef ole marse was ter steal six leetle sweet 'taters an' put 'em in he
pocket," began Delilah, undauntedly.
"Why don't you advise him to steal a wheelbarrowful instead of a
pocketful?" retorted the doctor.
"Kase he doan 'quire but six, an' he got ter _steal_ 'em, fur ter make
de conjurin' wuk. Den ev'y day he th'ow 'way a 'tater, an' when he th'ow
de 'tater 'way he th'ow de gout 'way, too. De hy'ars from a black cat's
tail is mighty good, too--"
"Temple, how do you put up with this sort of thing being uttered in your
hearing?" snapped the doctor.
General Temple looked rather sheepish. He had never actually tried
stealing six potatoes, or testing the virtue in hairs from a black cat's
tail, as a relief from gout, but he had not been above a course of tansy
tea, and decoctions of jimson-weed, and other of Delilah's remedies that
scientifically were on a par with the black cat's tail. But, being
racked with pain, he took refuge in pessimism and profanity.
"Excuse me, Wortley, but all medicine is a damned humbug!--I
mean--er--an empirical science. What is written is written. The Great
First Cause, that decrees from the hour of our birth every act of our
lives, has decreed that I should suffer great pain, anguish, and
discomfort from this hereditary disease."
"Marse, ef you wuz ter repent an' be saved--"
"Hold your infernal tongue!"
"An' jine de Foot-washers--"
"Damn the Foot-washers!" howled the general.
"Plague on it!" snarled Dr. Wortley, whirling round with his back to the
fire. "If you've got as far as predestination, you're in for a six
weeks' spell. I can cure the gout, but I'll be shot if I can do anything
when it's complicated with religion and black cats' tails and a
constant diet like a Christmas dinner!"
In the midst of the discussion, the doctor's shrill voice rising high
over Delilah's, who, with arms akimbo and a defiant air, only awaited
Dr. Wortley's departure to get in her innings with the patient, Mrs.
Temple, serene and sweet, came in and quelled the insurrection. Delilah
at once subsided, Dr. Wortley began to laugh, and the general directed
that Mrs. Temple's chair be put next to his.
"As your presence, my love, makes me forget my most unhappy foot," he
said.
Mrs. Temple's adherence to either Delilah or Dr. Wortley would have
caused victory to perch upon that side; but Mrs. Temple, like the
general, had more faith in Delilah than she was willing to own up to.
So, between Delilah's feeding him high all the time, while the doctor
only saw him once or twice a week, General Temple bade fair to remain an
invalid for a considerable time. The attack of gout, though, just at
that time, had its consolatory aspects. General Temple really wished to
call at Millenbeck, but Mrs. Temple showed no sign of yielding. For the
present, however, there could be no notion of his stirring out of doors.
As long as the gout lasted there was a good excuse. But General Temple
worried over it.
"My love," he said one night, while Mrs. Temple and Jacqueline and
Judith sat around the table in his room, where they had assembled to
make his evening less dull, "I am troubled in my mind regarding George
Throckmorton. It unquestionably seems heathenish for us to have one so
intimately connected with our early married life--that truly blissful
period--within a stone's throw of us, and then to deny him the sacred
rites of hospitality."
Jacqueline gave a half glance at Judith which was full of meaning, and
Judith could not for her life keep a slight blush from rising in her
cheek.
Mrs. Temple said nothing, but looked hard at the fire, sighing
profoundly. She had made herself some sort of a vague revengeful
promise, that no man wearing a blue uniform should ever darken her
doors. She had yielded first one thing, then another, of that scrupulous
and daily mourning and remembrance she had promised herself, for
Beverley--but this--
The pause was long. Mrs. Temple, looking at General Temple, was touched
by something in his expression--a longing, a patient, but genuine
desire. Occasionally she indulged him, as she sometimes relaxed a little
the discipline over Jacqueline in her childish days. She put her hand
over her eyes and waited a moment as if she were praying. Then she said
in broken voice, "Do what seems best to you, my husband."
General Temple took her hand.
"But, my own, I do not wish to coerce you. No matter what I think is our
duty in the case, if it does not satisfy you, it shall not be done. I
would rather anything befell Throckmorton, than you, my beloved Jane,
should be grieved or troubled."
Mrs. Temple received this sort of thing as she always did, with a shy
pleasure like a girl.
"I have said it, my dear, and you know I do not easily recede. Like you,
this thing has been upon me ever since Throckmorton's return. I have
felt it every day harder to maintain my attitude. Now, for your sake, I
will abandon it. Have Throckmorton when you like. I will invite him over
to tea on Sunday evening."
General Temple fairly beamed. When Mrs. Temple gave in to him, which was
not oftener than once a year, she gave in thoroughly.
"Thank you, my wife. It certainly seems unnatural that Millenbeck and
Barn Elms should be estranged. It shall be so no longer, please God. And
that George Throckmorton is a high-toned gentleman"--General Temple
paused a little before saying this, hunting for a term magniloquent
enough for the occasion--"no one, I think, will deny."
This was early in the week. The very next afternoon, Jacqueline finding
time more than usually hard to kill, went up into the garret and began
rummaging over the remains of Mrs. Temple's wedding finery of thirty
years before. She dived down into a capacious chest, and brought forth
two or three faded silk dresses, the bridal bonnet and veil, yellowed
from age; and, among other antiques, a huge muff almost as big as
Jacqueline herself. This suddenly put the notion of a walk into her
head. Judith was engaged in reading Napier's History of the Peninsular
Wars to General Temple, and Jacqueline had only herself for company. So,
carrying her huge muff in which she plunged her arms up to her elbows,
she started off. It was a raw autumn afternoon. The leaves had not yet
all fallen, although the ground was dank with them, and the peculiar
stillness of a lonely and lowland country was upon the monotonous
landscape. The entire absence of sounds is a characteristic of that sort
of country, and it makes a gloomy day more gloomy. Jacqueline, tripping
along very fast, did not find it cheerful. She would go as far as the
gate of the lane that led into the main road, and then turn back. This
lane was also the entrance to Millenbeck, and Jacqueline had some sort
of a faint expectation that she might run across Jack Throckmorton. She
looked longingly toward Millenbeck, visible at intervals through the
straggling fringe of pines. What an infinity of pleasure could be had,
if her mother only came round thoroughly regarding the Throckmortons!
What rides and dances she could have with Jack, and Judith could talk to
the major! "What a dull life Judith must lead!" she thought, stepping
lightly along. It was true, Judith liked to read; but Jacqueline, who
frankly confessed she could not read a novel through from cover to
cover, hardly appreciated reading as a resource. Jacqueline's
imagination, with this superstructure to build upon, went ardently to
work, and in a few minutes had installed Judith as mistress of
Millenbeck, and herself as the young lady of the establishment. To do
Jacqueline justice, she longed for Judith's happiness, who, she
sometimes bitterly felt, was her only friend. Just as she had arranged
this scheme to her satisfaction, she looked up, and saw, not twenty feet
ahead of her, Major Throckmorton coming out of the underbrush at the
side of the lane. A big slouch hat half concealed his face. His usual
trim and natty dress, with that unmistakable "military cut," was
exchanged for a shooting suit of corduroy, much stained, and otherwise
the worse for wear. His stylish and immaculate hat was replaced by the
flapping felt, and his gun and game-bag proclaimed his day's employment.
Yet Jacqueline thought she had never seen him look so handsome, and in
some way she was not half so much afraid of him in his shooting-togs as
in his perfectly fitting evening clothes. Jacqueline's face turned a
rosy red. As for Throckmorton, he too felt a thrill of pleasure. This
pretty child, as he called her, had been in his mind rather constantly
since he saw her at the party. He quickened his pace, and took his hat
off while still some distance away.
"Any more parties in prospect?" he asked, smiling, as he took her little
hand in his.
"No, I don't suppose there will be. Delicious parties like that don't
happen very often," answered Jacqueline, quite seriously, and not in the
least understanding Throckmorton's smile as she said this. "And--and
young Mr. Throckmorton--oh, how I enjoyed dancing with him!"
The major did not smile at this. To have "young Mr. Throckmorton" thrust
at him by a charming young girl was not particularly pleasing.
"Jack is a very jolly young fellow," he replied, shortly. "We are great
friends, Jack and I."
Jacqueline had turned around, and they were now walking together toward
Barn Elms.
"I--I should think," said Jacqueline, giving him one of her half-glances
from under the dark fringe of her eyelashes--"that J--Jack would be
afraid of you."
Throckmorton laughed aloud.
"Why should he be afraid of me?"
"Oh, I don't know. Everybody is afraid of one's father," replied
Jacqueline, candidly.
"Jack and I entertain sentiments of mutual respect," laughed
Throckmorton again. "The only fault I find with him is that he is unduly
filial sometimes. For example, when I am enjoying the society of a
charming young lady he thinks too young for me, he behaves as if I were
his great-grandfather instead of his father. Jack has a good deal of
Satan in him."
Jacqueline did not always follow Throckmorton's remarks, but she noticed
he had a rich voice, and he was the straightest, most soldierly-looking
man she ever saw in her life. Throckmorton slung his game-bag around and
held it open.
"Do you like robins?" he said. "They are delicious broiled on
toast"--and he took out a bird by the legs and showed it to her.
Jacqueline stood perfectly still. Her eyes dilated and her breath came
quickly. She took the bird out of his hand. It had long stopped
bleeding, and its little cold head, with half-closed eyes, fell over
piteously. Jacqueline took out her handkerchief and wrapped the poor
robin in it.
"Oh, the poor bird!" she said, and suddenly two large tears ran down her
cheeks.
Throckmorton stood surprised, touched, delighted, and almost ashamed. He
had been a sportsman all his life, and could see no harm in knocking
over a few birds in the season; but the picture of this tender-hearted
child, that could not see a dead bird without weeping, struck him as
beautifully feminine. But what could he say? If he was a bloodthirsty
brute to shoot a robin, what must all the slaughter of birds he had
been guilty of in his lifetime make him? He could only say, half
shamefacedly and half laughing "My dear little friend, you wouldn't have
men as squeamish as women, would you?"
But to this Jacqueline only responded by pressing the poor bird's cold
breast to her cheek.
Throckmorton, however, with an air of gentle authority, took the bird
from her and put it back in the bag.
"If you cry for such things as this, you will have a hard time in life,"
he said.
Jacqueline's face did not clear up at once.
"I want you to do something for me--to promise me something," she said,
gravely.
"What is it?" asked Throckmorton. Jacqueline had laid her charm upon him
in the last ten minutes, but he did not forget his caution entirely.
"It is," said Jacqueline, punctuating her words with tender, appealing
glances, "that you won't kill any more robins--never, never, as long as
you live."
Throckmorton refrained from smiling, as he felt inclined, but it was
plainly no laughing matter to Jacqueline. And if he gave the
promise--nobody knew the absurdity of it more than Throckmorton--suppose
Jack heard of it, what endless fun would he poke at his father on the
sly! Nevertheless, Throckmorton, calling himself an old fool, made the
promise.
Jacqueline, flushed with triumph, now conceived a bold design. She
would--that is, if her courage held out--tell him that her mother had at
last come round. This delightful information she proceeded to impart.
"Do you know," she said, smiling and showing her little even white
teeth, "that mamma has at last agreed to--to let us have something to do
with you and Jack?"
"Has she, indeed?" replied Throckmorton, with rather a grim smile.
"Yes," continued Jacqueline, with much seriousness. "Occasionally she
gives papa a little treat. You know she always liked you, and papa has
been dying to call to see you. But mamma can't forget the war and
Beverley. At last, though--she's been thinking about it ever since that
first day at church--she concluded to give in--and--and--you're to be
asked to tea next Sunday evening!"
The way this was told was not particularly flattering to Throckmorton,
but he was sincerely grateful and attached to Mrs. Temple, and he knew
and pitied the state of feeling that had caused her to intrench herself
in her prejudices. She must indeed remember those old days when she was
willing to do what Throckmorton suspected she had promised herself never
to do. "I want to be friends with Mrs. Temple--that's plain enough," he
said, "and if she asks me I shall certainly come."
"Do you know," said Jacqueline, after a pause, in a very confidential
voice, "I sometimes wish--now this is a secret, remember--that papa and
mamma would forget Beverley a little--and think--of Judith and me? They
seem to expect Judith to wear black all the time, and never to smile or
to laugh or to sing, as if Beverley could know. I don't believe the dead
in their graves know or care anything about us."
She was on delicate ground, but, her tongue being unloosed,
Throckmorton's attempt to check her was a complete failure.
"Judith, you know," she continued, cutting in on Throckmorton's awkward
remonstrance, "only knew Beverley a little while. Her father and mother
were dead, and papa was her guardian. She came to Barn Elms to live
after she left school, and Beverley came home from the war, and they
were married right away--almost as soon as they were acquainted. It was
so sudden because Beverley's leave was up, and Delilah says that
Beverley knew he was going to be killed soon. She says he dreamed it, or
something. Do you believe in dreams?"
"No, and you mustn't believe all Delilah tells you."
"Anyhow, he went away, and he never came back. That broke papa and
mamma's hearts. And you know--little Beverley--Judith's child--is like
her--and not a bit like Beverley, and mamma talks sometimes as if it was
a crime on the child's part. She says to everybody, 'Don't you think
the child is like his father?' and nobody answers her quite truthfully,
and she knows it."
Throckmorton hardly knew how to receive these family confidences, but he
could not but admire the color coming and going in Jacqueline's cheeks,
and the fitful light that burned in her eyes as she talked.
"And Judith--I do love Judith. It seems hard--now this is another
secret--that she should never have any more pleasure in this world. And
she is so bright and clever. She understands the most wonderful books.
And there's something--I can't help telling you this."
"Perhaps you had better not tell me," said Throckmorton in a warning
voice.
"But I can't help it, you are so--so sympathetic: I don't believe Judith
cared for Beverley much."
Jacqueline drew off to see the effect of this on Throckmorton. She did
not at all suspect him of any interest in Judith; but this family
tragedy, that had stalked beside her nearly all her life, she thought
was of immense importance, and she wanted to see how it affected
Throckmorton. In fact, it only embarrassed him. He said, rather briefly:
"Mrs. Beverley is very handsome--very charming."
"She's the best sister in the world," exclaimed Jacqueline. "Some people
think that sisters-in-law can't love each other. Sometimes I would
throw myself in the river if it wasn't for Judith."
"Why should such a tender little thing as you want to throw herself in
the river?" he asked; and if Jack had heard the tone in which this was
spoken, he would, no doubt, have found food for ungodly mirth in it.
"You don't know what sorrows I have," responded Jacqueline, gravely. And
then they were almost at the gate of Barn Elms, and Throckmorton bade
her good-by, and tramped back home, while Jacqueline scudded into the
house to confide the wonderful adventures of the afternoon to Judith.
In a day or two a note from General Temple came, inviting Throckmorton
and Jack to tea at Barn Elms the following Sunday evening. It was rather
a letter than a note, General Temple spreading himself--his honest soul
loved a rhetorical flourish--and containing many references to their
early association. Throckmorton accepted, in a reply in which he told,
much more glibly than his tongue could, the grateful affection he had
cherished from his neglected and unhappy boyhood toward the whole family
at Barn Elms. On the Sunday evening, therefore, Throckmorton, with Jack,
presented himself, and was effusively received by the general and Simon
Peter, who were not unlike in their overpowering courtesy to guests.
Judith was cordial and dignified, and Jacqueline full of a shy delight.
No doubt they would be invited to Millenbeck, and she would see with her
own eyes the Bruskins carpets and other royal splendors Delilah was
never weary of recounting.
General Temple was able to be down in the drawing-room, but Mrs. Temple
was not present. Delilah, however, soon put her head in the door, and,
crossing her hands under a huge white apron she wore, brought a message.
"Mistis, she say, won't Marse George please ter come in de charmber."
Throckmorton at once followed her. The "charmber" at Barn Elms was a
sort of star chamber, and utterances within its precincts were usually
of a solemn character. As Throckmorton entered, Mrs. Temple rose from
the big rush-bottomed chair in which she sat. Throckmorton remembered
the room perfectly, in all the years since he had been in it--the dimity
curtains, the high-post mahogany bed, the shining brass fender and
andirons, the tall candlesticks on the high wooden mantel. He
remembered, with a queer, boyish feeling, sundry moral discourses gently
administered to him in that room on certain occasions when he had been
caught in the act of fishing on Sunday, or poking a broomstick up the
chimney to dislodge the sooty swallows that built their nests there in
the summer-time, and other instances of juvenile turpitude. And he well
recollected once, when Mrs. Temple was ill, he had hung about the
place, a picture of boyish misery; and when at last he was admitted into
the room where she lay, white and feeble, on the broad, old-fashioned
lounge, how happy, how glad, how honored he had felt. He went forward
eagerly and raised Mrs. Temple's hand to his lips.
"George Throckmorton, this is nearer forgiveness than I ever expected
to come," she said.
"Dear Mrs. Temple, don't let us talk about forgiveness. Let us
only remember that we are friends of more than thirty years'
standing--because I can't remember the time when I was a boy that I
didn't love you."
"And I loved you, too--next to my own Beverley. I sent for you here that
I might tell you my trouble as you used to tell me yours so long ago.
Often you have sat on that little cricket over there and told me of your
grandfather's cruel ways to you--he was a godless man, George."
"He was indeed," fervently assented Throckmorton.
"And now I want to tell you of _my_ sorrows, George."
Throckmorton listened patiently while she went over all of Beverley's
life. She told it with a touching simplicity. Throckmorton well saw how
that still stern unforgiveness might rankle in her gentle but immovable
mind. Then he told her of his marriage--something he had never in all
his life spoken of to any one in that manner; but the force of sweet and
early habit was upon him--he could talk to Mrs. Temple about the young
creature so much loved and so long dead. Mrs. Temple, who knew what such
revealing meant from a man of Throckmorton's strong and self-contained
nature, was completely won by this. An hour afterward, when they came
into the drawing-room, and found Jack and Jacqueline in a perfect gale
of merriment, with Judith looking smilingly on, Mrs. Temple laid her
hand on Throckmorton's shoulder, and said to General Temple, with sweet
gravity, "He is the same George Throckmorton."
Judith was leaning a little forward in her chair, with her arm around
her child. The boy was a beautiful, manly fellow, and gazed at
Throckmorton with friendly, serious eyes. Throckmorton, whose heart was
tender toward all children, smiled at him. Beverley at this marched
forward and climbed upon Throckmorton's knee, his little white frock,
heavy with embroidery worked by Judith's patient fingers, spreading all
around him. The boy immediately launched into conversation, eying
Throckmorton boldly, although his eyes usually had the shy expression of
his mother's. He wanted to know if Throckmorton had a gun, and could he
beat the drum; also, if he could ride a horse. Sometimes grandfather
would take him up and let him ride as far as the gate. Throckmorton
answered all these questions satisfactorily, and then told about a pony
he had at Millenbeck--a pony that had been Jack's, when Jack was no
bigger than Beverley, and that was now too old and slow for any but a
very little boy. While Throckmorton talked to the child, Judith listened
with a smiling look in her eyes. Throckmorton could not but be struck by
the pretty picture the young mother and her child made. He saw the
resemblance between them at once, and when he told of a tragic adventure
Jack had with the pony, falling through a bridge, both pairs of large,
soft eyes grew wide with grave amazement. Unconsciously Judith assumed
the child's expression. Beverley seemed determined to monopolize his new
acquaintance, but presently Judith with a little air of authority sent
him off with Delilah. Beverley paused at the door to say:
"You come again and bring the pony."
Presently they went into the dining-room, and the old-fashioned tea was
served. There was enough to feed a regiment, and all of the best kind,
but nothing approaching vulgar display. Mrs. Temple put Throckmorton at
her right, and every time she spoke to Jack she called him George.
Throckmorton had forgotten nothing of the old days, and he not only
began to feel young himself, but he made General and Mrs. Temple feel
that time had turned backward. Jacqueline, on the opposite side of the
table, smiled at him and talked a little. In her heart she could not
quite make out Throckmorton. He had arrived at an age that seemed to her
almost venerable; yet he quite ignored the fact that he ought to be old,
and certainly was not old, nor could anybody say that he was young.
Jack's boyish fun she understood well enough, but Throckmorton's shrewd
humor, his confident, experienced way of looking at things, was rather
beyond her. And as the case had been, whenever Throckmorton saw her, he
had to exercise a certain restraint, lest everybody should see how
strangely and completely she magnetized him. If anybody had asked him to
compare Judith and Jacqueline, he would have given Judith the palm in
everything--even in beauty; but Jacqueline's young prettiness in some
way caught his fancy more than Judith's deeper and more significant
beauty.
But Judith had her charm too for him. She captivated his judgment as
Jacqueline captivated some inner sense to which he could give no name.
Judith's talk was seasoned with liveliness, and Throckmorton, who
possessed a dry and penetrating humor of his own, could always count on
a responsive sparkle in Judith's eye.
When they returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Temple said:
"Judith, my dear, sing us some of your sweet hymns."
Judith sat down to the piano and in her clear and bell-like soprano sang
some old-fashioned hymns, so sweetly and unaffectedly that Throckmorton
thought it was like angels singing. The sound of the simple music, the
soft light of fire and lamp, the atmosphere of love and courtesy that
seemed to breathe over the quaint circle, had a fascination for him. It
was the poetry of domestic life. He had often dreamed of what "home"
might be, but he had never known it, for that brief married life of his
had been too short, too flickering; they were boy and girl lovers, and,
before the new life had had time to crystallize, he was left alone. But
here he saw the sweet privacy of home, the repose, the family nest, safe
and warm. He sighed a little. Money could not buy it, else he would have
had it at Millenbeck, comfortable handsome country-house that it was.
But here, at this shabby old Barn Elms, it was in perfection, in all its
naturalness and simplicity. After all, women were necessary to make a
home; even money, with a Sweeney as presiding genius, couldn't do it.
It was late when they left. Mrs. Temple's parting was as solemn as her
greeting:
"I have done that which I never expected to do, and all because in my
heart I can't but love you, George Throckmorton!"
Throckmorton's keen pleasure showed in his dark eyes.
"I always knew, if you would only listen to that dear, kind heart of
yours, you would forgive the Yankees," he laughed.