He felt her hands quiver beneath his forehead, and he put up his own and clasped her wrist.  “Are you thinking, ’I should have left him in the tobacco-fields’?  As for me, I know that I ought never to have spoken to you there beneath the apple tree.”

“Lewis, who was the man?”

He made no answer, and after a moment or two, numbed and grey, had passed, she needed none.  The truth fell like a stroke from glowing iron.  With a cry she dragged her hands from Rand’s, left the chair, and, crossing the room, flung herself down beside the chintz-covered couch and cowered there with a hidden face.  Rand arose and, walking to the window, stared at the veil of rain and the stabbing lightning.  The clock ticked, a log upon the hearth parted with a soft sound, from the back of the house came faintly the homely cheer of the servants’ voices.  How deadly, how solemnly still, how wet and cold, was now a rocky strand upon the river road!  He left the window and, coming to the couch, looked down upon the crouching figure of his wife.  His brain was not numbed; it was pitilessly awake, and he suffered.  The name of his star was Wormwood.

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 passion 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?”