Throckmorton: A Novel

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“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 associated 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 nobody 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, passed 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.