Then she stopped suddenly.
“Mise Judy,” said Delilah, after a while, “I lay on de pallet by de baid, an’ all night long I heah her cryin’, jes’ cryin’ quiet—she doan’ make no noise. I say: ‘What de matter, honey? Tell yo’ ole mammy dat nuss you?’ an’ she make ’tense den she ’sleep. But I know she ain’ ’sleep—she jest distrusted at de way dem folks treat her at that ungordly party at Tuckey Thicket.”
General and Mrs. Temple were anxious about Jacqueline, but by no means despairing. Neither of them thought that anybody could die without having anything ostensibly the matter. Judith, on the contrary, thought this the most alarming thing about Jacqueline. There she lay, steadily losing her hold on life, without any reason in the world that she should not be up and about—except, indeed, that sickness of the soul which saps the very foundations of life. This fear that Jacqueline was slipping away from them impelled her to write Throckmorton a few lines—guarded, but without disguising anything.
Meanwhile, the day that was to have been the wedding-day had come and gone. Jacqueline had not noticed it—she seemed to notice nothing in those days—but toward noon she said to Judith:
“I want to see my wedding-dress—to see if it is quite ruined.”
Judith, without protesting, went and got it. She spread it out on the bed. It was rich and white and soft, and was beautiful with Judith’s handiwork; but it was bloodstained in many places.
“That blood, I think, came from my heart,” said Jacqueline; her eyes were soft and luminous. “I’ve been thinking about Throckmorton in the last two or three days—for the first time. I have been so busy with my own sorrow and Freke’s that I haven’t had time to think about anything else. Now, though, I want to see him—if he can get here in time.”
“He will soon be here,” answered Judith, folding up the dress. “I wrote him four days ago.”
“That is so like you! None of the others know what I want, or will let me have my own way, but you.”