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.”