In the few days that followed, Judith saw more plainly that Freke was
deliberately casting his spell over Jacqueline, and, from the soft and
seductive flattery he had tried on her, Judith, at first, he exchanged
something like sarcasm. He would discuss constancy before her, Judith
meanwhile keeping her seat resolutely, but she could not prevent the
tell-tale color from rising into her face. But when, as Freke generally
did, he surmised that all the so-called constancy in this world wasn't
exactly what it purported to be, she grew pale beneath his gaze. He
watched her intently whenever she was with Throckmorton, and the mere
consciousness of being watched embarrassed while it angered her. Freke,
whose perceptions were of the quickest, saw far into the future, and
often repeated in his own mind the old, old truth that all the passions
of human nature--love, hope, despair, jealousy, and revenge--could be
found within the quietest and most peaceful circle.
The very next evening after Mrs. Sherrard's visit, Freke appeared in the
dusky drawing-room, where Jacqueline sat crouched over the fire, and
Judith, with her child in her arms, sang him quaint Mother Goose
melodies. When Freke came within the fire's red circle of light, Judith
observed that he had a violin and bow under his arm. Jacqueline jumped
up delightedly.
"Oh, oh! do you know any music?"
"I can fiddle a little," answered Freke, smiling.
He settled himself, and, in the midst of the deep silence of twilight in
the country, began a concerto of Brahms. The first movement, an
_allegro_, he played with a dainty, soft trippingness that was fit for
fairies dancing by moonlight. The next, a _scherzo_, was full of tender
suggestiveness--a dream told in music. The third movement was deeper,
more tragic, full of sorrow and wailing. As Freke drew the bow across
the G-string, he would bring out tones as deep as the 'cello, while
suddenly the sharp cry of the treble would cut into the somber depths of
the basso like the shriek of a soul in torment. A melody like a
wandering spirit appeared out of the deep harmonies, and lost, yet ever
found, would make itself heard with a sweet insistence, only to be
swallowed up in a tempest of sound, like a bird lost in a storm. And
presently there was an abatement, then a calm, and the music died,
literally, amid the twilight dusk and gloom.
As Freke, with strange eyes, and his bow suspended, tremblingly, as if
waiting for the spirit to return, ceased, there was a perfect silence.
Jacqueline, who had never heard anything like it in her life, and who,
all unknown to herself, was singularly susceptible to music, gazed at
Freke as the magician who had made her dream dreams, and after a while
cried out:
"Why do you play like that? I never heard anybody play so before."
In answer, Freke again smiled, and played a wild Hungarian dance, fit
for the dancing of bacchantes, so full of barbaric clash and rhythm,
that Jacqueline suddenly sprang up and began to dance around the chairs
and tables. Freke half turned to glance at her; he retarded the time,
and softened the tones, when Jacqueline, too, danced slowly and
dreamily--until presently, with a storm and a rush of music,
_fortissimo_ and _prestissimo_, and a resounding blare of chords that
sounded like the shouts of a victorious army, he stopped and lay back in
his chair, still smiling.
But, although Judith had twice Jacqueline's knowledge of music, with all
her feeling for it, Freke was piqued to see that she did not for a
moment confound his music with his personality. She seemed to take a
malicious pleasure in complimenting him glibly, which is the last snub
to an artist. Freke was so vexed by her indifference, that he began to
play cats mewing and dogs barking, on his fiddle, to frighten little
Beverley, who looked at him with wide, scared eyes.
"Never mind, my darling," cried Judith, laughing. "Be a brave little
boy--only girls are scared at such things."
Beverley, thus exhorted, summoned up his courage and proposed to get
grandfather's sword to defend himself. Judith's laughter, the defiant
light in her eyes, the passionate kiss she gave the boy as a reward for
his bravery, annoyed Freke. His vanity as an artist, however, was
consoled by hearing Simon Peter's voice, in an awed and solemn whisper
from the door, through which his woolly head was just visible in the
surrounding darkness:
"I 'clar' ter God, dat fiddle is got evils in it. I hear some on 'em
hollerin' an' cryin' fur ter git out, an' some on 'em larfin' an'
jumpin'. Marse Temple, dem is spirits in dat fiddle. I knows it."
"They are, indeed; and, if I go down to the grave-yard at midnight and
play, all the dead and gone Temples will rise out of their graves and
dance around in their grave-clothes. Do you hear that?" said Freke,
gravely.
"Lord God A'mighty!" yelled Simon Peter, "I gwi' sleep wid a sifter" (a
sieve) "over my hade ev'y night arter dis. Sifters keeps away de evils,
kase dey slips th'u de holes." And, sure enough, a sieve was hung up
over Simon Peter's bed that very night, with a rabbit's foot as an
additional safeguard, and a bunch of peacock's feathers over the
fireplace was ruthlessly thrown into the fire to propitiate "de evils."
When Thursday evening came, General Temple was high and dry with the
gout, and Mrs. Temple, of course, could not leave him alone to fight it
out with Delilah.
"Ole marse, you gwi' keep on havin' de gout twell you w'yar a ole h'yar
foot in yo' pocket. I done tole you so, an' I ain' feerd ter keep on
tellin' you so," was Delilah's Job-like advice.
"That's true," snapped the general. "Gad, if I had had a thousand men in
my brigade as little 'feerd' as you, I'll be damned if I ever would have
surrendered at Appomattox! God forgive me for swearing."
"I hope and pray He will, my darling husband," responded Mrs. Temple,
with calm piety.
Jacqueline was in a fever of delight, as she always was when there was
any prospect of going from home. She danced up and down, romped with
little Beverley, and, hugging him, told him in a laughing whisper that
she would see "somebody" at Turkey Thicket, and "somebody had beautiful
black eyes, and was only twenty-two years old."
Judith, too, felt that pleasurable excitement of which she began to be
less and less ashamed. A few words dropped meaningly by Throckmorton,
full of that sound sense which distinguished him, made her look
differently at life. His philosophy was not Mrs. Temple's. He reminded
Judith that we should accept peace and tranquillity thankfully, and that
it was no sin to be happy; and everything that Throckmorton said
commended itself to Judith. For the first time in her narrow and
secluded life she enjoyed with him the pleasure of being as clever as
she wanted to be. He was no timid soul, like Edmund Morford, to fear a
rival in a woman. It never occurred to Throckmorton to feel jealous of
any woman's wit. One of his greatest charms to Judith was that he was
not in the least afraid of her. Her quick feminine humor, her natural
acuteness, her knack of pretty expression in speech and writing,
appeared in their true light, as mere accomplishments, contrasted with
Throckmorton's firm and masculine mind. The conviction of his mental
grasp, his will-power, all that goes to make a man fitted to command a
woman, had in it a subtile attraction for Judith, like the spell that
beauty casts over a man. He was the only man in all her surroundings
whose calm superiority over her was perfectly plain to her. It was only
necessary for him to express an opinion, that Judith did not at once see
its force. She sometimes differed courteously with him; but it began
soon to be a perilous pleasure to her to find that usually Throckmorton
was infinitely wiser, more liberal, more just than herself.
When the Thursday evening came, only Judith, Jacqueline, and Freke were
to go. It had turned bitterly cold. Simon Peter, sitting in solitary
magnificence on the box, handled the ribbons over the Kentucky horses,
who dashed along so briskly that the carriage, which was in the last
stage of "befo' the war" decrepitude, threatened to tumble to pieces and
drop them all in the road.
Going along, Jacqueline sat back in the carriage, very quiet and silent.
Freke, with his back to the horses, talked to Judith. Occasionally in
the darkness, by a passing gleam, he could see Jacqueline's eyes
shining.
"What do you think of Major Throckmorton," he asked Judith.
Although not versed in knowledge of the world, Judith was not devoid of
self-possession. The question, though, embarrassed her a little.
"I--I--think he is most interesting, kind--and--"
"Military men are, as a rule, rather narrow, don't you think?"
"I never saw enough to judge. I should think they ought to be the other
way."
"Every time I see Throckmorton, the consciousness comes to me that I
have seen him before--seen him under some tragical and unusual
circumstances. If I didn't know that those who have good consciences,
like myself, should be above superstition, I should say that in some
previous state of being I had known him; however, I am too strictly
orthodox in my beliefs to tolerate such notions. But some time or
other--perhaps to-night--I intend to find out from Throckmorton himself
if we haven't had the pleasure of meeting in another cycle or state of
being. There is, by the way, an ineffable impudence in Throckmorton
returning to this county now."
Judith suspected that Freke's peroration was made with the intention of
provoking a reply.
They were driving along an open piece of the road, and it was
comparatively light in the carriage, although there was no moon. Freke
glancing up to see the cause of Judith's silence, caught the gleam of
her white teeth in a broad smile. She was laughing at him. It certainly
was delicious to hear Temple Freke commenting on anybody's having
impudence in returning to the county. Freke, who hated to be laughed at,
promised himself he would be avenged. "I'll make you wince, my lady!" he
thought to himself. Presently, though, Judith said, in a tone with a
sharpness in it, like one who has been wounded:
"I can't imagine anybody applying the word impudence to Major
Throckmorton. He is very reserved--very dignified."
"Throckmorton, I see, has an advocate.--And little Cousin Jacky, what do
you think of the other Jacky--Jacky Throckmorton?"
"I think he's perfectly delightful," assented Jacqueline, after a pause.
Freke said no more about the Throckmortons. The women were evidently
against him there; and soon they were driving up to the door at Turkey
Thicket, and going up the hall stairs to take off their wraps, very much
as on that last evening, when Mrs. Sherrard took occasion to
rehabilitate Throckmorton in the good graces of the county people, as
she was now trying to do with Freke.
When Judith and Jacqueline came down the stairs, Freke met them at the
foot. Jacqueline had pleaded hard to wear a white dress, but Mrs. Temple
was inexorable. She might catch cold; consequently, she wore a little
prim, Quakerish gown of gray. Judith, as usual, was stately in black.
Throckmorton was standing on the rug before the drawing-room fire,
talking gravely with Mrs. Sherrard. Edmund Morford was there and Dr.
Wortley, who, with Jack Throckmorton, constituted the company. Mrs.
Sherrard drew Judith into the conversation that she had been carrying on
with Throckmorton. He said to Judith:
"I will continue what I was saying--but I assure you it is something I
could speak of to but few people. It is this absolute barring out on the
part of the county people toward me. Not a soul except Mrs. Sherrard and
Mrs. Temple has asked me to break bread. I thought I knew Virginians--I
thought them the kindest, easiest, least angular people in the world;
but, upon my soul, anything like this cold and deliberate ostracism I
never witnessed! Why, half the county is related to me--and I've been to
school with every man in it--and yet, I am a pariah!"
"You don't look at it from their point of view," replied Mrs. Sherrard,
with more patience than was her wont. "Think how these people have
suffered. You see yourself, never was there such ruin wrought, and then
remember that you are associated with that ruin. Can't you fancy the
dull and silent resentment, the cold anger, with which they must regard
all--"
"Blasted Yankees?" cheerfully remarked Throckmorton, recovering his
spirits a little.
"But you know," said Mrs. Sherrard, whose ideas on some subjects were
rudimentary, but speaking kindly though positively, "you mustn't wear
your uniform down here."
Throckmorton laughed rather harshly.
"As I'm not going to be married or buried, I can't see what chance I
would have to wear it. But what you say disposes me to put on my
full-dress uniform, with sword and chapeau, and wear it to church on
Sunday."
Then Mrs. Sherrard went off after her latest passion, Temple Freke, and
left Judith and Throckmorton standing together.
"I think _I_ understand you," said Judith, with her pretty air of
diffidence. "But, as you know, the people here have one principle
which stands for honor, and you have another. You have got power
and--and--victory out of _your_ principle, and we have got nothing
but ruin and defeat and wretchedness out of _our_ principle. How can
you hold us to a strict account?"
"I do not--God knows I do not!--but I want a little human kindness. I
get it from a few. Dr. Wortley, who was my tutor at my grandfather's,
and has licked me a hundred times--and Morford, and the families at
Turkey Thicket and Barn Elms--but none of them, I think," continued
Throckmorton, looking into Judith's eyes with admiration, "exactly
understand how _I_ feel as well as you. What kept me in the army was, as
you say, a principle of honor. It was like a knife in me, every Southern
officer who resigned. I respected them, because I knew, as only the
naval and military men knew, that they were giving up not only their
future and their children's future, for what they thought right, but
that they knew the overwhelming odds against them. I don't believe any
one of them really expected success--they knew too much--it was a
sacrifice most disinterested. I could not go with them; but I had to
face as much obloquy among my people by staying in the army as they
had to face in going out. But I swear I never gave one thought to the
advantage to me of staying where I was! I stayed because I could not, as
a man of honor, do otherwise, I thought my own people would recognize
this--that by this time the bitterness would be over."
"Never mind," said Judith, with a heavenly smile, "it will come--it will
come."
A little later, Mrs. Sherrard whispered to Throckmorton:
"Are not my two beauties from Barn Elms sweet creatures?"
"Very," answered Throckmorton, a dark flush showing under his tan and
sunburn. "Little Jacqueline is a charming creature."
"Oh, pooh! Jacqueline. You mean Judith."
"Mrs. Beverley is most dignified, charming, and interesting; but little
Miss Jacky--"
"I should think she would be a nice playmate for your Jack," remarked
Mrs. Sherrard.
Throckmorton looked awkward, not to say foolish. Had he forgotten his
forty-four years, his iron-gray hair, all the scars of life? Jacqueline
and Jack were inseparable from the start, and their two heads were close
together on the deep, old-fashioned sofa, at that very moment.
"The major stole a march on me the other day, going over to Barn Elms,"
remarked Jack, confidentially. "However, I'll get even with him yet."
"Oh, how can you talk so about your own father?"
"Why shouldn't I talk so about my own father?"
"Because it's not right."
"Look here, Miss Jacky. Nobody thinks as much of the major as I do--he's
the kindest, noblest, gamest chap alive--but you see, I'm a man, and
he's a man. When he got married at twenty-one, he took the risk of
having a son in the field before he was ready to quit himself."
"Do you--do you remember your mother?" asked Jacqueline, in a low voice.
"No," answered Jack, fixing his dark eyes seriously on Jacqueline. "I
have a miniature of her that my father gave me when I was twenty-one. He
keeps her picture in his room, and on the anniversary of her death he
spends the day alone. Once in a great while he has talked to me about
her."
Jacqueline glanced at Throckmorton with a new interest. He was still
talking to Judith. The pleased look on the major's face aroused the
mischievous devil in Jack. In five minutes Jacqueline, to her disgust
and disappointment, found herself talking to Dr. Wortley, while Jack had
established himself on the other side of Judith. Neither Throckmorton
nor Judith was pleased to see him.
"You ought to hear my father tell about some of his campaigns 'way back
in the fifties," remarked Jack. "It's a good while ago, but the major
isn't sensitive about his age like some men."
Perhaps the major was not, but Jack's observation was received in grim
silence.
"I am sure Major Throckmorton can tell us a great many interesting
things," answered Judith, smiling involuntarily--"particularly to us who
lead such quiet lives, and who know so little. I sometimes wonder how I
shall ever be able to bring up my boy; I have so few ideas, and they
seem to be all rusting away."
"I thought you were a great reader," said Throckmorton.
"I like to read, but--"
"My father is a Trojan of a reader," continued Jack, "and his eyesight
is really wonderful."
At this the major, with the cast in his eye very obvious, rose and
walked over to where Jacqueline was sitting. Jack had accomplished his
object, and ran his father out of the field. But Judith felt a sense of
bitter disappointment. However, with the sweetness of her nature, she
overcame her resentful feelings toward Jack, and, in spite of his boyish
disposition to make people uncomfortable, really began to like him.
Throckmorton, though, was not ill pleased on the whole. It was by an
effort that he had kept away from Jacqueline until then. But, after
talking with her awhile, he was not quite so well satisfied. Her
childishness was pretty, and the acuteness of her remarks sometimes
surprised him, but there was nothing to her--she talked and thought
about herself. Throckmorton tried once or twice to get her into the
channel of rational conversation, but Jacqueline rebelled. She
acknowledged with a pretty smile that she hated books, and that she was
poor company for herself. Throckmorton felt a tinge of pity for her.
What would become of her twenty years hence--so pretty, so charming, so
inconsequent?
Freke had in the mean time completed his conquest of Mrs. Sherrard.
Presently he went to the piano and trolled out songs in a rich barytone,
playing his own accompaniments. This musical gift was a revelation to
Mrs. Sherrard. It was not comparable, though, to his violin-playing.
Nevertheless, it was enough to turn Jacqueline's head a little. Freke
sang a sentimental song, with a tender refrain, and every time he sang
this refrain he cast a glance at Jacqueline.
Gradually the blood mounted to her face, until, when he stopped, she was
as rosy as the morning. Then Freke sat down by her, and after that
Jacqueline had no eyes for anybody else--not even Jack.
Throckmorton saw it, with a strong disgust for Freke, and with that same
strange pang of jealousy he had felt before. Judith's angry disapproval
burned within her, but she made no attempt to circumvent Freke until,
looking around after a while, she missed him and Jacqueline both.
Judith, watching her opportunity, slipped out into the hall, and there
found the culprits. Jacqueline made a little futile effort to pretend
that they were looking at some prints by the light of a solitary
kerosene-lamp; but Freke, who at least had no pretence about him, held
on boldly to Jacqueline's hand, until she wrenched it away.
"Jacqueline, dear," said Judith, trying to speak naturally, "it is cold
out here; come in!"
"I'm not cold," answered Jacqueline after a pause.
"But it is not polite to run away like this," urged Judith, casting an
angry look at Freke, who, with folded arms, was whistling softly.
"I can't help that, Judith," answered Jacqueline, pettishly. "Why do you
want me in that stiff drawing-room with old Dr. Wortley and Mrs.
Sherrard, and--"
"But Jacqueline, _I_ want you!"
There was no mistaking that tone.
"Go along, Jacky," said Freke, with cheerful submission. "You'll be
liable to catch some dreadful moral complaint if you breathe the same
atmosphere with me too long. I am a sinner of high degree, I am."
Jacqueline turned and sullenly followed Judith back, while Freke,
smiling and unruffled, walked by her side. And then supper was served,
but Jacqueline was perfectly distrait and could not keep her eyes off
Freke, who was the life and soul of the party. The supper was after the
Virginia order--very good--and so profuse it could not all be got on the
table.
On the drive home there was perfect silence. Freke made one or two
observations to Judith, but her cold silence convinced him that it was
useless. He was not afraid of her, but he saw no good in pretending to
placate her. When they reached Barn Elms and were standing in the cold
hall, Judith said to Jacqueline:
"Go on. I shall be up in a moment."
"I'll wait for you," replied Jacqueline, doggedly.
"You may wait, but I wish to speak to Freke privately. I shall take him
into the drawing-room."
At this, Jacqueline went slowly and unwillingly up the stairs.
Judith picked up the lamp and went into the dark drawing-room. The fire
still smoldered dimly in the great fireplace. Freke took up the tongs
and made a vigorous attack on the fire, and in two minutes the flames
were leaping around the brass firedogs. Then he settled himself
comfortably in the corner of the sofa.
Judith, although her determination was made, yet felt timid, and her
heart beat.
"What excuse can you give," she asked in an unsteady voice, "for your
behavior with that child to-night?"
"None whatever," answered Freke, coolly. "I am not bound to justify
myself to you, nor do I admit there was anything to be excused."
"You are right in saying you are not bound to justify yourself to me,"
said Judith; "but can you justify yourself to her father and mother? You
see how she is. You know what they--what we all--think of you. You are a
married man, remember."
"Am I?" asked Freke, laughing. "By Jove, I wish I knew whether I was or
not!"
"What right have you to fill Jacqueline's head with dreams and notions?
The child was well enough until you came. Why can't you go away and
leave her in peace?"
Freke smiled at this. "I don't feel like going away," he said, "and
particularly now that I see you wish me to go. I have rather different
plans in view now that I have bought property here. It doesn't look well
for a man to be cast off by his relations; and I intend to have, if I
can, the backing of the Temples."
"But how long, think you, could you stay, if the child's mother knew of
your behavior to-night?"
"That I don't know. But I wish to stay, Madam Judith; and, since you are
so prudish, I will promise you not look at Jacqueline again. Will that
satisfy you?"
"I will first see how you keep your promise. But I warn you, Freke, if
you remain here much longer, I shall use all the influence in my power
to get you out of this house. You are no advantage to the child. It
would be better for her if you went away and never came back."
Freke had been sitting all this time, while Judith, standing up, pale
and disdainful, spoke to him. But now he rose.
"Now," he said with sudden seriousness, "since you have expressed that
hospitable intention concerning me, let me tell you something--something
very interesting, that I have suspected for some time, but only found
out to-night. You remember I told you of that death-struggle of
Beverley's with an officer--how they rolled over and over and fought."
"Yes--yes--"
"And how the officer's horse, held by the bridle, I thought every moment
would trample--"
"Yes--yes--yes!" cried Judith.
"Well," said Freke, coming up close to her, "Throckmorton was that
officer!"
Freke had meant to give her one fierce pang; it was a delicious thing to
him to strike her through Throckmorton; but he was quite unprepared for
the result, for Judith, although young and strong, after standing for a
moment gazing at Freke with wild eyes, swayed and without a sound
dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
Freke, cursing his own folly, ran to her and called loudly. His voice
echoed through the midnight silence of the house. It brought Mrs.
Temple, frightened and half dressed, into the room, followed by Delilah,
struggling into her petticoats, and Simon Peter, scratching his wool and
but half awake.
Freke had raised Judith on his arm. Something strange, like pity, of
which he knew but little, came to him as he looked at her pallid face.
"You git 'way, Marse Temple," said Delilah, with authority. "Me an'
mistis kin manage dis heah.--Hi, Miss Judy! Open yo' eyes, honey, an'
tell what de matter wid you."
Mrs. Temple, who never lost her head in emergencies, in five minutes had
Judith in a fair way of coming to herself. Freke said truthfully that he
never was so surprised in his life as when Judith fell over. Mrs. Temple
could not account for it either, and proposed to leave the solution to
Dr. Wortley when he should be sent for in the morning. In a few minutes
more Judith came to and sat up. Almost her first conscious glance fell
on Freke. She gazed at him steadily, and in an instant the conviction
that what he had said was mere wanton cruelty came to her. Freke himself
avoided her glance uneasily.
"Honey, tell yo' ole mammy wh'yar hu'ts you," pleaded Delilah, anxious
to take charge of the case in advance of Dr. Wortley.
"Nowhere at all. I only want to get to bed.--Mother, I hope father
wasn't waked."
"My dear, nothing short of an explosion would wake him."
Mrs. Temple wisely refrained from tormenting Judith with questions. Her
fainting-fit was certainly unaccountable, but Mrs. Temple remembered
once or twice in her own early days when she had done the same thing. So
she merely gave Judith some brandy-and-water, and in a few minutes, with
Delilah's help, got her on the old-fashioned sofa.
While Mrs. Temple and Delilah were stirring about the room, shutting up
for the night and raking the fire down, Freke came up to Judith. Revenge
was familiar to him, but not revenge on women, and remorse was
altogether new to him.
"What I told you," he began, awkwardly, "the facts in the case--"
"Say no more about it; I don't believe you!" answered Judith in a low
voice, but scornful beyond description.
Freke's rage blazed up under that tone.
"You don't believe me? Then I'll make Throckmorton tell you himself. I
can find it out from him without his suspecting it, and I'll make him
tell you how he killed your husband."
Judith drew back and gave him a look that was equivalent to a slap in
the face. Just then Mrs. Temple and Delilah went out into the hall to
make fast the door.
"Well, then, if by any accident you have told me the truth, it was the
fortune of war--"
"Yes, but the hand that killed your husband! Ah! do you think I don't
see it all--all--all--not only what has happened, but what is happening
now?"
Judith rose slowly from her sofa, forgetting her weakness. At that
moment Freke thought he had never seen her look so handsome. Her eyes,
usually a soft, dark gray, were black with indignation; her cheeks
burned; she looked capable of killing him where he stood. She opened
her lips once or twice to speak, but no sound came. She had no words to
express what she felt at that moment. Freke felt a sensation of triumph.
At last he had brought this proud spirit to book; and Throckmorton--at
least if she scorned himself, Freke--she was forever out of
Throckmorton's reach. There was a gulf between them now that nothing on
earth could bridge over. He stood in a calm and easy attitude, his face
only less expressive than Judith's. Nobody who saw Freke then could say,
as Mrs. Temple sometimes had said, "What is there so interesting in
Freke's face?" It was full of power and passion.
It seemed an age to each as they stood there, but it was really only a
few moments. Mrs. Temple and Delilah came back. Judith nodded to Freke,
and walked off, disdaining Delilah's arm. She felt pride in showing him
her strength and composure. She even glanced back at him, and gave him a
smile from her pale lips.
"You have a spirit like a man!" he cried after her, involuntarily. Mrs.
Temple thought he meant because Judith had rallied so quickly from her
fainting-fit.
"Rather a spirit like a woman!" answered Judith, in a loud, clear voice,
as she went up the stairs.
It was some little time before she could get rid of Mrs. Temple and
Delilah. But presently the door was locked, and she was alone.
Some power beyond her will drew her steps to the window that looked
toward Millenbeck. The moon had gone down, and a few clouds scurried
across the pale immensity of the sky, whipped by the winds of night.
There was enough of the ghastly half-light to distinguish the dark
masses of the trees and even the outline of the Millenbeck house. From
the window which she knew well enough belonged to Throckmorton's own den
the cheerful light still streamed. He was sitting there, reading and
smoking, no doubt. She could imagine exactly how he looked. His face,
when he was silent, was rather stern, which made the charm of his smile
and his words more captivating by contrast. And what horror she ought to
feel of this man!--for, in spite of that first involuntary protest that
she did not believe Freke, the heart-breaking conviction came to her
every moment that he was telling the truth. But did she feel horror and
hatred of Throckmorton? Ah! no. And when she tried to think of Beverley,
the feeling that he was dead; that he would trouble her no more; that he
was forever gone out of her life, filled her with something that was
frightfully like joy.
But when she remembered that an open grave lay between her and
Throckmorton, it was not something like anguish she felt--it was anguish
itself. Here was a man she might have loved--a man infinitely worthy of
love--this much she acknowledged to herself; and yet Fate had married
her to a man she never could have loved. For at that moment she saw as
by a flash of lightning the falseness of her marriage and her widowhood.
She dared not think any longer; she could only throw herself on her
bed, and try and stifle among the pillows her sobs and cries. And,
remembering Beverley and Throckmorton and Freke, and his words to her
that night, this gentle and soft-hearted creature sounded all the depths
of grief, love, shame, hatred. She tried to pray, but her prayers--if
prayers they could be called--were mere outcries against the inexorable
and unpitying God. "Dear Lord, what have I done to thee that I should
suffer so?"
The night wore on, the candles burned out, the fire was a mere red glow
of embers. Anguish and despair, like other passions, spend themselves.
Judith had ceased to weep, and lay on her bed with a sort of icy torpor
upon her. Little Beverley, who rarely stirred in his sleep, waked up and
called for his mother; but even the child's voice had no power to move
her. The little boy, finding himself unnoticed, crawled out of his
small bed and came to his mother's side. The sound of his baby voice,
the touch of his little warm, moist hands, awakened something like
remorse in her. She tried to help him up on the bed, but her arms
fell helplessly--she, this strong young woman, was as weak as a child
with the conflict of emotions. The boy, however--a sturdy little
fellow--climbed up alone and nestled to her. She covered him up and held
him close to her, and kissed him coldly once or twice. "My child, he
killed your father," she said to him, thinking of Throckmorton, and that
perhaps, for the child's sake, she might arouse some feeble spark of
regret for the father--some dutiful hatred of Throckmorton. But she
could do neither the one nor the other.
At last, as a wet, miserable, gloomy dawn approached, she fell into a
wretched sleep. Judith's unexpected fainting-fit was a very good excuse
for her keeping her room for a day or two--a merciful provision for her,
as, along with other new experiences, she found for the first time that
her soul was stronger than her body, and that grief had made her ill.
She expected, in all those wretched hours that she lay in her darkened
room, that every time the door opened it would be Mrs. Temple coming
with a ghastly face to tell her the dreadful thing that Freke knew; and
the mere apprehension made her heart stand still. She, this candid and
sincere woman, rehearsed to herself the very words and tones that she
would express a grief and horror she did not feel. But when several days
passed, and the explosion did not come, she concluded that Freke, for
his own reasons, meant to keep it to himself.
For Freke's part, he had no intention of telling anybody except
Judith. He had no mind to bring about the storm that would follow his
revelation. He meant to show Judith that gulf between Throckmorton and
herself, and that was all. He would have been unfeignedly sorry had the
hospitable doors of Millenbeck been no longer open to him.
When Judith came down-stairs, he felt a great curiosity to know how she
would meet him. He himself was perfectly easy and natural in his manner
to her; and she, to his enforced admiration, was equally self-possessed
with him, although she could not always control the expression of her
eyes. "What a Spartan she is!" thought Freke to himself. "She could die
of grief and chagrin with a smile on her lips, and with her voice as
smooth and musical as the velvet wind of summer."