She had meant only kindness to him—was seeking only her own convalescence, desperately determined to love and to hold this man. Hadn't he understood it? Could he not give her time to recover? How could he expect more of her—a bride, confronted in the very first hours of her wedded life by her husband's self-avowed mistress!
She stood, hesitating, clenching and unclenching her white and slender hands, striving to think, succeeding only in enduring, until endurance itself was rapidly becoming impossible.
Why was he hurting her so? Why? Why? Yet, never once was her anger aroused against this man. Somehow, he was not responsible. He was a man as God made him—one in the endless universe of men—the only one in that limitless host existing for her. He was hers—the best of him and the worst. And the worst was to be forgiven and protected, and the best was to thank God for.
She knew fear—the anxious solicitude that mothers know, awaiting the return of an errant child. She knew pain—the hurt dismay of a soul, deep wounded by its fellow, feeling a fresher and newer wound with every dragging second.
Her servant came, asking in an awed whisper whether her mistress would not eat something.
Jacqueline's proud little head went up.
"Mr. Desboro has been detained unexpectedly. I will ring for you when he comes."
But at midnight she rang, saying that she required nothing further, and that the maid could retire after unhooking her gown.
Now, in her loosened chamber-robe, she sat before the dresser combing out the thick, lustrous hair clustering in masses of gold around her white face and shoulders.
She scarcely knew what she was about—knew not at all what she was going to do with the rest of the night.