Throckmorton made one short, sharp struggle with himself, and then
yielded to Jacqueline's fascination.
Without Freke's keen perceptions, Throckmorton knew enough to doubt
whether he ought to congratulate or curse himself if he won Jacqueline;
and that he could win her, his own good sense told him soon enough.
Jacqueline's nature was so impressionable that a strong determination
could conquer her at any time and at any thing for a season.
Throckmorton, tramping about the country roads with his gun on his
shoulder; having jolly bachelor parties at Millenbeck, which were
confined strictly to the Severn neighborhood; in church on Sunday,
half-listening to Morford's pyrotechnics in the pulpit; smoking at
unearthly hours in his own den; riding hard after the hounds--the
thought of Jacqueline was never far away, and never without a suspicion
of pain and dissatisfaction. He was not given to paltering with himself,
and nothing could utterly blind his strong common sense--a common sense
that was so imperative to be heard, so difficult to answer, so
impossible to evade. It was not in him to surrender his judgment
absolutely. He faced bravely the discrepancy in their ages, but he soon
admitted to himself that there were other incongruities deeper and more
significant than that. Nevertheless, although Reason might argue and
preach, Love carried the day. Throckmorton reminded himself that
miracles sometimes happened in love. He did not suffer himself to think
what Jacqueline would be twenty years from then. Time is always fatal to
women of her type. Even her beauty was essentially the beauty of youth.
In twenty years she would be stout and florid. Here Throckmorton, in his
reflections, unexpectedly went off on Judith. Hers was a beauty that
would last--the beauty of expression, of _esprit_. Then his thoughts,
with a sort of shock, reverted to Jacqueline.
As for Freke, Throckmorton did not once connect him with Jacqueline.
Freke was a black sheep, and, as Throckmorton devoutly and thankfully
remembered, the daughter of General and Mrs. Temple would not be likely
to regard a divorced man as a single man. So, in the course of two or
three weeks, Throckmorton had gone through all his phases, and had made
up his mind. He could not but laugh at Mrs. Temple's unsuspecting
security. She had always regarded Jacqueline as a child, and indeed
regarded her very little in any way.
This excellent woman, whose gospel was embodied in her duty to her
husband and her children, had always been a singularly unjust mother;
but she thought herself the most devoted mother in the world, because
she regularly superintended Jacqueline's changes of flannels, and made
her take off her shoes when she got her feet wet. Both Mrs. Temple and
the general were absolutely incapable of entertaining the idea that
Freke was growing fond of Jacqueline; and Freke was not only astute
enough to keep them in the dark, but to keep Judith, too, who fondly
imagined that she herself had reduced Freke to good behavior as regarded
Jacqueline. Freke's estimate of the two young women had not changed in
the least--only Jacqueline was come-at-able and Judith was not--and he
loved to cross Judith and vex her, and give her pin-sticks as well as
stabs in return for the frank hatred she felt for him. She had elected
her own position with him--so let her keep it.
It never took Throckmorton long to act on his determinations. Jacqueline
saw what was coming. He had a way of looking at her that forced her to
look up and then to look down again. He said little things to her,
instinct with meaning, that brought the blood to her face. He performed
small services for her that were merely conventional, but which were
from him to her acts of adoration. And Judith saw it all.
He did not have to wait long for an opportunity. One evening he went to
Barn Elms. The general was threatened with a return of his gout, which
had got better, and Mrs. Temple had imprisoned him in the "charmber,"
where she mounted guard over him. Only Jacqueline and Judith, with
little Beverley, who had been allowed to stay up until eight o'clock, as
a great privilege, were in the drawing-room when he walked in. The boy
and Throckmorton were such chums that there was no hope of getting
Beverley off under a half-hour. He stood between Throckmorton's knees,
perfectly happy to be with him, asking endless questions in a subdued
whisper, and frowning out of his expressive eyes when Throckmorton
wanted to know when his mother intended to cut off his long, yellow
curls, so that he would be a real boy. Judith, sitting in her usual
place, smiling and calm, soon settled that the winged word would be
spoken that night. What better chance would Throckmorton have than when
she should be gone to put the child to bed? She watched the tall clock
on the high mantel with a fearful sinking of the heart, that drove the
color out of her face. Presently it was half-past eight.
"Come, dearest," she said to the child.
Beverley held back.
"I don't want to go with you," he said. "I want to stay and play."
This childish treason to her at that moment was a stab. She got up with
a smile, and opened her arms wide, her eyes shining under her straight
brows.
"Come, dear little boy," she said.
The tone was so winning, so compelling, it went to the child's baby
heart. He ran to his mother, with wide-open arms, who caught him and
held him tight, covering his yellow mop of hair with kisses.
Throckmorton looked on surprised and admiring. He had never seen Judith
yield to anything emotional like that; she was laughing, blushing, and
almost crying, as Beverley swung round her neck. And Throckmorton
thought he had never seen her look so handsome as when she ran out of
the room, carrying the child, who was a sturdy fellow, in her slender
arms, her face deeply flushed. Throckmorton, as he held the door open
for her to pass out, gave her a meaning smile; but Judith would not look
at him. Up-stairs, Beverley was soon in his little bed. Judith, sitting
on the floor, with both arms crossed on the crib, held one of the
child's little warm hands in hers; the only real and comforting thing in
life then seemed that childish hand.
"I will stay an hour," she said. "Mother will be vexed"--Mrs. Temple had
old-fashioned ideas about leaving girls to themselves--"but he shall be
happy. I will see that he has his chance." But, like Throckmorton
himself, she feared for his happiness. Nobody knew better than she
Jacqueline's weakness. She had, indeed, a sort of childish cleverness,
which was, however, of no practical good to her; but then, as Judith
remembered, Throckmorton's love could transform any woman. "Yes, I shall
go through it," she thought, still kneeling on the carpet, and pressing
her face to the child's in the crib; "Jacqueline will insist that I
shall take off the mourning I wear for the man I never loved, at the
wedding of the man I do love. If Throckmorton has any doubts or troubles
with Jacqueline, he will certainly come to me. I will help him loyally,
and he will need a friend. So far, though, from making me suffer more,
the hope of befriending him is the only hope I have left in the world. I
wonder how it feels to have one's heart aching and throbbing for another
woman's husband--to be counting time by the times one sees him? For
assuredly a few words spoken by a priest can not change this." She
struck her heart. "And in everything Jacqueline will be blest above me.
See how poor and straitened we are, and Jacqueline's life will be free
from any care at all! However, to be loved by Throckmorton must mean to
be rich and free and happy." And then, with a sort of clear-eyed
despair, she began to look into the future, and see all of Jacqueline's
and Throckmorton's life spread out before her. "And how unworthy she
is!" she almost cried out aloud. She had now risen from the crib and
was gazing out of the window at Millenbeck, that was plainly visible
across the white stretch of snow between the two places. "Of course, she
will love him--no woman could help that--but she can't understand him.
She will not have the slightest respect for his habits, and will always
be wanting him to alter them for her. She never will understand the
reserves of Throckmorton's nature. She will tease him with questions. I
would not care if Jacqueline were the one to be unhappy"--for so had
pain changed her toward the child that had been to her almost as her
own--"but in a few years the spell will have vanished. Throckmorton will
find out that she is no companion for him. There can be no real
companionship for any man like Throckmorton except with a woman
somewhere near his own level--least of all now, when he is no longer
young."
Then she came back and took the child out of his little bed, and held
him in her arms and wept passionately over him. "At least I have you,
darling; I have you!" she cried.
Down-stairs, in the drawing-room, Throckmorton made good use of his
time. With very little apprenticeship, he knew how to make love so that
any woman would listen to him.
He told Jacqueline that he loved her, in his own straightforward way;
and Jacqueline, whose heart beat furiously, who was frightened and half
rebellious, suffered him to get a few shy words from her. Throckmorton
did not stoop to deny his age, but he condescended to apologize for it.
In a dim and nebulous way Jacqueline understood the value of the man who
thus offered his manly and unstained heart, but she felt acutely the
want of common ground between them.
Throckmorton's love-making was not at all what simple Jacqueline fancied
love-making to be. He did not protest--he did not talk poetry, nor abase
himself; he made no exaggerated promises, nor did he sue for her love.
At the first sign of yielding, he caught her to his heart and devoured
her with kisses. Yet, when Jacqueline wanted to escape from him, he let
her go. He would not keep her a moment unwillingly. Jacqueline did not
understand this masterful way of doing things. She fancied that a lover
meant a slave, and apparently Throckmorton considered a lover meant a
master.
At the end of an hour, Judith returned to the room. Throckmorton was
standing alone on the hearth-rug, in a meditative attitude. In his eyes,
as they sought Judith's, was a kind of passionate, troubled joy; he
doubted much, but he did not doubt his love for Jacqueline. He went
forward and took Judith's hand, who lifted her eyes, strangely bright,
to his face. She was smiling, too, and a faint blush glowed in her
cheeks. There were no visible signs of tears.
"I am a happy man," said Throckmorton to her. "Jacqueline has promised
to marry me."
His words were few, but Judith understood how much was conveyed in his
sparing speech.
"I am happy, too," she returned, pressing his hand. "You deserve to be
happy, and you will make--Jacqueline happy."
As she said this, she smiled tremulously. Throckmorton was too much
absorbed to notice it.
"I will, so help me Heaven!" he answered.
In all his life before, Throckmorton did not remember ever to have felt
the desire of communion about his inner thoughts and feelings. Was it
because he himself had changed, or that Judith had that delicate and
penetrating sympathy that drew him on to speak of what he had never
spoken before? Anyway, he sat down by her, and talked to her a long
time--talked of all the doubts and pitfalls that had beset him; his
plans that Jacqueline might be happy; his confidence that Judith would
be his strongest ally with Mrs. Temple, who was by no means a person to
be counted on. She might object to Throckmorton's profession, to his
being in what she continued to call the Yankee army, to his twenty-odd
years' seniority, to his not being a member of the church; as like as
not this was the very rock on which Throckmorton's ship would split.
Judith, with the same heavenly smile, listened to him; she even made a
little wholesome fun of him; and when he rose to go, Throckmorton felt,
even at that time--and nobody could say that he was a laggard in
love--that he had gained something else besides Jacqueline, in the sweet
friendship of a woman like Judith. He took her little hand, and was
about to raise it to his lips with tender respect, when Judith, who had
stood as still as a statue, suddenly snatched her hand away and gave
Throckmorton a look so strange that he fancied her attacked by a sudden
prudery that was far from becoming to her or complimentary to him. She
slipped past him out of the door, and he heard her light and rapid
footfall as she sped up the stairs. As there was nobody left to
entertain the newly accepted lover, he put on a battered blue cap, for
which he had a sneaking affection, and sometimes wore under cover of
night, and let himself out of the front door and went home across the
snow-covered fields, in an ecstasy.
Meanwhile, Jacqueline, as soon as she had heard the bang of the
hall-door after Throckmorton's quick, soldierly step, stole out of her
own room into Judith's. In answer to her tap, Judith said, "Come in."
Judith was seated before the old-fashioned dressing-table, her long,
rich hair combed out, and was making a pretense of brushing it, but
occasionally she would stop and gaze with strange eyes at her own image
in the glass. She rose when Jacqueline entered, and took the girl in
her arms as Jacqueline expected.
"Judith," Jacqueline said, "I am to be married to Major Throckmorton. I
wonder what Freke will say!"
Judith held her off at arm's length, and looked down at her with eyes
full of anger and disdain.
"Don't mention Throckmorton and Freke in the same breath, Jacqueline!
What does Freke's opinion count for--what does Freke himself? It is an
insult to Throckmorton to--to--"
"But, Judith," said Jacqueline, "Freke talks better than Major
Throckmorton--"
"And plays and sings better. Ah! yes. At the same time, Throckmorton's
little finger is worth more than a dozen Frekes."
"But it troubles me about Freke. I know Major Throckmorton can manage
mamma--he can do anything with her now; and mamma, of course, will
manage papa; but nobody can do anything with Freke."
"Jacqueline," said Judith, sitting down and taking Jacqueline in her
lap, and changing all at once into the sweetest sisterly persuasion, "no
other man on earth must matter to you now but Throckmorton. Let me tell
you what a true marriage is. It is to love one man so much that with him
is everything--without him is nothing. It is to study what he likes, and
to like it too. It is to make his people your people, and his God your
God. I think one need not know a great deal in order to be worthy of a
man--for his love makes one worthy; but one should know a great deal in
order that one may be creditable to him in the eyes of the world. Think
how Throckmorton's wife should conduct herself; fancy how frightful the
contrast, if she should not in some degree be like him! I tell you,
Jacqueline, a woman to sustain Throckmorton's name and credit should be
no ordinary woman. If you do not love him, if you do not make him proud
and happy to say, 'This is my wife,' you deserve the worst fate--"
One of Jacqueline's fits of acuteness was on her. She looked hard at
Judith.
"It seems to me, Judith, that you would make a much more fitting wife
for him than I."
"Don't say that!" cried Judith, breathlessly. "Never, never say that
again!"
Jacqueline, who knew well enough when to stop, suddenly halted. After a
little pause, she began again:
"I know it will be dreadfully lonely at Millenbeck. Major Throckmorton
loves to read, and I shall be a great interruption to his evenings. I
don't know how I shall treat Jack. Don't you think it would be a good
idea to get a companion--somebody who knows French?"
"You musn't think of such a thing. Good heavens! a companion, with
Throckmorton? You can learn more from him in one week than all the
governesses in creation can teach you."
"I didn't say governess," replied Jacqueline, with much dignity. "I said
companion."
Then, as Jacqueline leaned her head on Judith's shoulder, Judith talked
to her long and tenderly of the duty, the respect, the love she owed
Throckmorton. Jacqueline listened attentively enough. When the little
lecture was finished, Jacqueline whispered:
"I feel differently about it now. At first, I could only think of
Millenbeck and a new piano, and doing just as I liked; but now, I will
try--I will really try--not to vex Major Throckmorton."
That was all that could be got out of her.
Judith went with her to her room, and did not leave it until Jacqueline
was tucked in her big four-poster, with the ghastly white tester and
dimity hangings. Jacqueline kissed her a dozen times before she went
away. Judith, too, was loath to leave. As long as she was doing
something for Jacqueline, she was doing something for Throckmorton. For
was not Jacqueline Throckmorton's now?