Part 51 (1/2)

At last she stirred, lifted her head from her arm, and arose, moving stiffly and slowly as though she had grown old. Her face was drawn and colorless. She moved, mechanically, to the fire, laid fresh wood upon it, and, taking a small broom from the corner, made the hearth clean; then, returning, sat down upon the couch that was printed with bright roses and held out her hands. ”Come,” she said, in her low, musical voice. ”Come, tell me--”

He sank upon his knees beside her and bowed his head upon her lap.

”Jacqueline, Jacqueline! I rode away from Richmond, in black anger--”

He told her all, now speaking with a forced and hard deliberation, now with a broken and strangled voice, short words and short sentences--at the last, monosyllables.

When the tale was done, they stayed for a little, motionless. There was yet bright lightning with long peals of thunder, and the rain beat with pa.s.sion against the panes. Jacqueline moistened her ups, tried to speak, at last found a broken and uncertain voice. ”You left him--lying there?”

”The horse broke away--ran on through the wood. It will have been caught ere now, or it will make its way to Greenwood. Is Fairfax Cary at home?”

”He came last night. He was at Fontenoy this morning.”

Rand stood up. ”It is done, and all the rueing in the world will not make the breath alight again.” With a gesture, singular and decided, he walked to the window and again looked out at the rain and lightning. ”If I know--if I know Fairfax Cary--Has the horse been captured--and where?

It may be known now, and it may not be known for hours.” He stood, reviewing chances, and the shaken soul began to settle to its ancient base. At last he turned. ”There's danger enough, but the struggle must be made. If you love me still, I'll find the heart to make it; ay, and to succeed!” Coming back to her, he took her in his arms. ”You do love me? That isn't dead?”

”I love you, Lewis.”

”Then, by G.o.d, I'll fight it out! Jacqueline, Jacqueline--”

She presently freed herself. ”What are you going to do--what are you going to do now, Lewis?”

”I will tell you what I have done, and where the danger's greatest--”

”The danger?”

”The danger of discovery.”

”Lewis--will you not tell them?”

”Tell them--”

”Is it not--oh, Lewis, is it not the only thing to do? Sin and suffering--yes, yes, the whole world sins and suffers! But oh, ign.o.ble to sin and to reject the suffering!”

He stared at her incredulously. ”Do you know, Jacqueline,--do you know what you are saying?”

”Will it be so hard?” she asked, and put out her arms to him. ”It is right.”

”Let me understand,” he said. ”When the mist cleared and I saw him lying there, I sat down upon a stone, and I said to myself, 'This is a strange land, and I am to eat the fruits thereof.' For a while I did not think of moving. You would have had me stay there as he stayed, watch there beside him until men came?”

She answered almost inaudibly, ”It had been n.o.bler.”

”And then and there to have given myself up?”

”Lewis, if it was right--I would have said to G.o.d and the world and him, 'It is the least that I can do!'”

He stared at her. ”By G.o.d, the _amende honorable!_”

There came blinding lightning, followed by thunder which seemed to shake the room. Rand crossed to the hearth and, with his booted foot upon the iron dogs, rested his arm upon the mantel-shelf and his head upon his hand. ”I'll think of that awhile,” he said harshly. ”That means disgrace and may mean death.”