From her dressing-table she took her keys, and, opening her
mother's desk of rosewood and mother-of-pearl, lifted from it several
letters and the packet which Colonel Nicholas had given her the day
before. With these in her hands she left her chamber and went into the
drawing-room. "Bring the candles," she said over her shoulder to Mammy
Chloe. "It is growing too dark to see to read."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LETTER

The windows were open to the dusky rose of the west, and their long
curtains stirred in the hot and fitful breeze. Jacqueline, waiting for
the lights, pushed the heavy hair from her forehead and panted a little
with the oppression of the night. Young Isham entered with the candles,
and Mammy Chloe brought her upon a salver a cup of coffee and a roll.
She ate and drank, then sent her old nurse away. The candles, under
their tall glass shades, were upon the centre table, and beside them lay
the letters she was to read. Her husband's own letter was slipped
beneath the ribbon that confined her dress, and lay against her heart.

It was so hot and dull a night that she stood for a while at a window,
leaning a little out, trying to fancy that there was rain in the
fantastic mass of clouds that rose on either side of the evening star.
The smell of the box at the gate was strong. She thought of Fontenoy, of
Major Edward, and of Deb. A grey moth touched her; she looked once again
at the bright star between the clouds, then, turning back into the room,
drew a chair to the table and, sitting down, took into her lap the
papers that lay beside the candles.

There had come a letter in the stage from Winchester. She opened it.
"Could Mr. Rand arrive by such a day? The case was important--the
interests large--the fee large, too. Could he come just as soon as the
jury, the press, and Mr. Jefferson hanged Aaron Burr? An early reply--"

Jacqueline rose, brought writing-materials from the escritoire to the
table, and copied rapidly, in her clear, Italian hand, the Winchester
letter, then laid it to one side to be folded with her own to Lewis for
to-morrow's stage to Williamsburgh. The next letter was, she knew, from
Albemarle, and not important. She laid it aside. The third she opened;
it was from a gentleman in Westmoreland who wished in a certain
litigation "the services, sir, of the foremost lawyer in the state."
Jacqueline smiled and laid it with the Albemarle letter. The matter
might wait until the foremost lawyer