Throckmorton, who was nothing if not prompt, had infused so much life
and spirit into his love-affair that at the end of a week it was settled
that the wedding should take place the last of February--only a month
off. Jacqueline's trousseau was not likely to be imposing, and the few,
feeble reasons which Mrs. Temple urged for delay were swept away by
Throckmorton's impetuosity. It was not the custom in that part of the
world for engagements to be formally announced; on the contrary, it was
in order to deny them up to the very last moment, and to regard them as
something surreptitious and to be hid under a bushel. General Temple had
magniloquently given his consent, when Throckmorton went through the
form of asking it. Mrs. Temple still shook her head gravely over the
matter, particularly over the brief engagement, which was quite opposed
to the leisurely way in which engagements were usually conducted in her
experience; but Throckmorton seemed to have mastered everybody at Barn
Elms. For himself that period was one of deep joy, and yet full of
harassing doubts. The more he studied Jacqueline under her new aspects,
the stranger things became. It cut him to see how little real
consequence either her mother or her father attached to her. Judith
seemed to be the only person who was concerned to make Jacqueline love
him; to regard the girl as a woman, and not as a child. For Jacqueline
herself, she was as changeable as the weather. Had she been steadily
indifferent to him, Throckmorton would have thought nothing necessary
but a manly fight to win her; but sometimes she showed devoted fondness
for him, and, without rhyme or reason, she would change into the coldest
indifference or teasing irritability. Throckmorton told himself it was
the coyness and fickleness of a young girl in love; but sometimes a
hateful suspicion overcame him that there was in Jacqueline an innate
levity and inconstancy that went to the root of her nature. The evident
delight she took in the luxury and pleasures that were to be hers--the
horses, carriages, pianos, and flowers at Millenbeck--was rather that of
a child dazzled with the fineries of life. Her love for them was so
unthinking and uncalculating that it did not shock Throckmorton; yet how
could he, with his knowledge, his experience of men, women, and things,
help seeing the differences between them--differences that, had his
infatuation been less complete, would have appalled him? As it was, just
as Judith had predicted to herself, he often came to her for sympathy
and encouragement--not expressed in words, but in the subtile
understanding between them. Judith always spoke in praise of Jacqueline;
she artfully managed to show Throckmorton the best of her. But for
Judith the marriage could never have been hastened on, as Throckmorton
desired; for, as soon as she found out Throckmorton's wish, she went to
work on Jacqueline's trousseau with a sort of desperate energy that
carried things through. Jacqueline could have no fine silk gowns, but
she was to have piles of the daintiest linen, of which the material cost
little, but the beautiful handiwork lavished upon it by Judith was worth
a little fortune. Jacqueline herself, spurred on by Judith's industry,
sewed steadily. As for Judith, the fever of working for Jacqueline
seized her, and never abated. She even neglected her child for
Jacqueline, until Mrs. Temple, with stern disapproval, took her to task
about it. Judith, blushing and conscience-stricken, owned to her fault,
although nobody could accuse her of lacking love for the child. But
still she managed to sew for Jacqueline, sitting up secretly by night,
and with a pale, fixed face--stitch, stitch, stitching! Jacqueline could
not understand it at all; and when she asked Judith about it once, she
was so suddenly and strangely agitated that Jacqueline, a little
frightened, dropped the subject at once. But, in truth, this was to
Judith a time of new, strange, and terrible grief and disappointment.
How she had ever permitted Throckmorton to take up her whole heart and
mind she did not know any more than she could fathom now how she ever
came to mistake an early and immature fancy for a deep and abiding
passion, and had suffered herself to be married to Beverley Temple. She
endured agonies of remorse for that, and yet hourly excused herself to
herself. "How could I know," she asked herself in those long hours of
the night when men and women come face to face with their sorrows. But
all her remorse was for Beverley. As for the hatred she ought to feel
for Throckmorton as the slayer of her husband, she had come to laugh it
to scorn in her own mind. But, like all true women, she respected the
world--the narrow circle which constituted her world--and she felt
oppressed with shame at the idea that the whole story might all one day
come out, and then what would they think of her? What would they do to
her? She could not say, as she had once said, "I do not believe it." She
had heard it from Throckmorton's own mouth. She would have to say, "I
knew it, and went to his house, and continued to be friendly with him,
and spoke no word when he wished to marry Beverley's sister." She could
not divine the reason of Freke's silence, but, torn and harassed and
wearied with struggles of heart and conscience, she simply yielded to
the fatalism of the wretched, and let things drift. Sometimes in her
own room, after she had spent the evening with Throckmorton and
Jacqueline, seeing clearly under his perfectly self-possessed exterior
his infatuation for Jacqueline, she would be wroth with him. Judith, the
most modest and unassuming of women, would say to herself, with scorn of
Throckmorton: "How blind he is! To throw away on Jacqueline, who in her
turn throws it to the wind, what would make me the proudest creature
under heaven! And am I unworthy of his love, or less worthy than
Jacqueline?" To which her keen perceptions would answer rebelliously,
"No, I am more worthy in every way." She would examine her face
carefully in the glass, holding the candle first one side, then the
other. "This, then, is the face that Throckmorton is indifferent to. It
is not babyish, like Jacqueline's; there are no dimples, but--" Then
the grotesqueness of it all would strike her, and even make her laugh.
The fiercest pain, the most devouring jealousy never wrung from her
the faintest admission that there was anything to be ashamed of in
cherishing silently a profound and sacred love for Throckmorton. He
was worthy of it, she thought, proudly. Toward him her manner never
changed--she was mistress of some of the nobler arts of deception--but
sometimes, although working for Jacqueline, and tending her
affectionately, she would be angry and disdainful because Jacqueline
did not always render to Throckmorton his due. She almost laughed to
herself when she compared this horror of pain and grief which she now
endured with the shock and pity of Beverley's death. She remembered that
the joy her child gave her seemed almost wicked in its intensity at
that time. What passions of happiness were hers when she would rise
stealthily in the night and, taking him from his little crib, would hold
him to her throbbing heart; and often, from the next room, she could
hear Mrs. Temple pacing her floor, and could imagine the silent wringing
of the hands and all the unspoken agonies the elder mother endured for
_her_ child! Then she would swiftly and guiltily put the child back in
his cradle, and, with remorse and self-denial, lie near him without
touching him. Often in that long-past time, when she met him in his
nurse's arms, she would fly toward him with a merry, dancing step,
laughing all the time--she was so happy, so proud to have him--and,
looking up, would catch Mrs. Temple's eyes fixed on her with a still
reproach she understood well enough. Then she would turn away from him,
and, sitting down by Mrs. Temple, would not even let her eyes wander to
the child, and would remain silent and unanswering to his baby wail.
But in this first real passion of her life, the child, much as she
adored him, was secondary. He was her comfort--she would not, if she
could, have let him out of her sight or out of her arms--but he could
no more make her forget Throckmorton than anything else; he could only
soften the intolerable ache a little, when he leaned his curly head upon
her breast; and as for that easy and conventional phrase, the goodness
of God, and that ready consolation that had seemed so apt at the time of
Beverley's death, she began to substitute, for the mild and merciful
Divinity, a merciless and relentless Jehovah, who had condemned her to
suffer forever, and who would not be appeased.
At first, the secret of the engagement was well kept. Only Jack
Throckmorton, who behaved beautifully about it, and Freke, knew of the
impending wedding. Freke's behavior was singular, not to say mysterious.
He was so cool and unconcerned that Jacqueline was furiously piqued, and
could scarcely keep her mind off her grievance against him for not
taking her engagement more to heart, even when Throckmorton was with
her. Freke's congratulations were quite perfunctory--as unlike Jack
Throckmorton's whole-souled good wishes as could be imagined. One
morning, soon after the news had been confided to Freke, he came into
the dining-room, where Judith was sewing, with Jacqueline, also sewing,
sitting demurely by her side.
"Making wedding finery, eh?" was Freke's remark as he seated himself.
"Yes," answered Judith, quietly, without laying down her work.
"I want to see how much Jacqueline will be changed by marriage--You
mustn't flirt with Jack, little Jacky."
He said this quite good-humoredly, and Jacqueline turned a warm color.
"And don't let me see you running after the chickens, as I saw you the
other day. That wouldn't be dignified, you know; it would make Major
Throckmorton ridiculous. You must do all you can to keep the difference
in your ages from becoming too obvious."
Judith felt a rising indignation. Jacqueline's head was bent lower. She
dreaded and feared that people would tease her about Throckmorton's age.
Freke saw in a moment how it was with her, and kept it up.
"Throckmorton is sensible in one way. His hair is plentifully sprinkled
with gray, but he doesn't use art to conceal it."
"I do not think forty-four is old," said Judith, indignant at
Jacqueline's tame submission to this sort of talk. "I think, with most
women, Major Throckmorton would have the advantage over younger men."
As soon as she said this, she repented. Freke glanced at her with a look
so amused and so exasperating that she could have burst into tears of
shame on the spot.
"Come, Jacqueline," cried Freke, rising, "let us go for a walk. I don't
know whether Throckmorton will permit this after you are married.
Marriage, my dear little girl, is more of a yoke than a garland. I am
well out of mine, thank Heaven!"
Judith cast a beseeching look at Jacqueline, but Freke had fixed his
eyes commandingly on her. That was enough. Jacqueline rose and went out
to get her hat.
Judith sat quite silent. She rarely spoke to Freke when she could help
it.
"What do you think of this ridiculous marriage?" he asked.
"I, at least, don't think it ridiculous. There are incongruities much
worse than a difference in age."
"Yes, I understand," assented Freke, with meaning. "I have found it so.
If I were as free as Throckmorton, though, I would be in no hurry to put
my head in the noose."
"You said just now you were free."
"Did I? Well, in fact I am free in some States and not in others. You
people down here seem to regard me as an escaped felon. That sort of
thing doesn't exist any longer in civilized communities." Judith made no
reply. She hated Freke with a kind of unreasoning hatred that put a
guard upon her lips, lest she should be tempted to say something rash.
And in a moment Jacqueline was back, and, with a defiant look at Judith,
went off with Freke. Freke caught a glance from Judith's eyes as they
went out. The fact that it expressed great anger and contempt for him
did not make him overlook that her eyes were remarkably full of fire and
the turn of her head something beautiful.
"Judith is a thoroughbred--there's no mistake about that," he said to
Jacqueline--and kept on talking about Judith until he reduced Jacqueline
to a jealous silence, and almost to tears--when a few words of praise
restored her to complete good humor. Throckmorton never played off on
her like this--it was quite opposed to his directness and
straightforwardness.
Freke was more constantly at Barn Elms than ever before. It often
occurred to Judith that he took pains to keep secret from Throckmorton
all the time he passed with Jacqueline. Sometimes she even suspected
that Jacqueline had some share in keeping Throckmorton in the dark, so
constant was Freke's presence when Throckmorton was absent, and so
unvarying was his absence when Throckmorton was present.
After a while, though, a hint of the engagement got abroad in the
county, and the people generally, who had never relaxed in the slightest
degree their forbidding exterior to Throckmorton, now somewhat included
the Temples in the ban. Throckmorton, engrossed with his own affairs,
had ceased to care for himself, being quite content with the few people
around him who took him into their homes. But he felt it acutely for
Jacqueline, who told him, with childish cruelty, without thinking of the
pang she inflicted, of the strange coolness that all at once seemed to
have fallen between her and her acquaintances. And Judith was sure that
Freke put notions of that kind and of every kind into the girl's head.
Once, after one of Freke's daily visits--for, if anything, he came
oftener than Throckmorton--Jacqueline said, quite disconsolately, to
Judith:
"Freke says I shall never have any more girl friends after I am married.
Throckmorton is too old; and, besides, the people in this county will
never, never really recognize him."
"This county is not all the world--and, Jacqueline, pray, pray don't
listen to anything Freke has to say."
"I know you don't like Freke."
"I hate him."
Judith, when she said this, looked so handsome and animated that
Throckmorton, entering at that moment, paid her a pretty compliment,
which she received first with so much confusion and then with so much
haughtiness that Throckmorton was as completely puzzled as the night he
offered to kiss her hand, and concluded that Judith was as freakish as
all women are.
Among the smaller irritations which Throckmorton had to bear, at this
strange time, was Jack's sly rallying. Jack assumed his father to be a
love-sick octogenarian. Anything less love-sick than Throckmorton's
simple and manly affection, or less suggestive of age than his alert and
vigorous maturity, would be hard to find. But Jack had always possessed
the power of tormenting his father where women were concerned--the
natural penalty, perhaps, of having a son so little younger than
himself. Jack felt infinite respect for Jacqueline, and never once
indulged in a joke calculated to really rouse Throckmorton; but some
occasions were too good for him to spare the major. Such conversations
as these were frequent:
"Major, are you going over to Barn Elms this evening?"
"No, I was there this morning."
"I understand, sir, that two visits a day, when the young lady is in the
immediate neighborhood, is the regulation thing."
"You are at liberty to understand what you please. With youngsters like
yourself, probably three visits would hardly be enough."
"I have been told that these things affect all ages alike."
Throckmorton scowled, but scowls were wasted on Jack, whose particular
object was to put the major in a bad humor; in which design, however, he
rarely succeeded.
In spite of the silence that had been maintained by the Barn Elms people
regarding the engagement, Mrs. Sherrard, who had what is vulgarly called
a nose for news, found it out by some occult means, and Throckmorton was
held up in the road, as he was riding peacefully along, to answer her
inquiries.
"I think you and Jacky Temple are going to be married soon, from what I
hear," was her first aggressive remark, putting her head out of the
window of her ramshackly old carriage.
"Do you?" responded Throckmorton, with laughing eyes. "You must think me
a deuced lucky fellow."
Mrs. Sherrard did not speak for a moment or two, and a cold chill struck
Throckmorton, while the laugh died out of his eyes.
"That's as may be," she replied, diplomatically; "but the idea of your
marching about, thinking you are deceiving _me_!"
"I am young and bashful, you know, Mrs. Sherrard."
"You are not young, but you are younger than you are bashful. You always
were one of those quiet dare-devils--the worst kind, to my mind."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"And Jane Temple--ha! ha!"
Throckmorton joined in Mrs. Sherrard's fine, ringing laugh.
"A Yankee son-in-law!" screamed Mrs. Sherrard, still laughing; then she
became grave, and beckoned Throckmorton, sitting straight and square in
his saddle, to come closer, so the black driver could not hear. "Jane,
you know," she said, confidentially, "was always daft about the war
after Beverley's death; and, let me tell you, Beverley was a fine, tall,
handsome, brave, silly, commonplace fellow as ever lived. Judith has
more brains and wit than all the Temple men put together, and most of
the women. Hers was as clear a case of a winged thing that can soar
married to a Muscovy drake as ever I saw. Luckily, she hadn't an
opportunity to wake up to it fully, before he was killed; and then, just
like a hot-headed, romantic thing, she wrapped herself in crape, and has
given up her whole life to Jane and General Temple, and Jacky."
Throckmorton felt a certain restraint in speaking of Judith to Mrs.
Sherrard, who had assumed that it was his duty to fall in love with
Judith instead of Jacqueline. So he flicked a fly off his horse's neck
and remained silent.
"I do wish," resumed Mrs. Sherrard, pettishly, "that Jane Temple would
act like a woman of sense, and send for me over to Barn Elms, and show
me Jacky's wedding things."
"Very inconsiderate of Jane, I am sure. If it would relieve your mind at
all, you might come to Millenbeck, and I would be delighted to show you
my coats and trousers. They are very few. I always have a plenty of
shirts and stockings, but my outside wardrobe isn't imposing."
"I don't take the slightest interest in your clothes. You don't dress
half as much as Jack does."
"Of course not; I can't afford it."
"One thing is certain. If you have any sort of a wedding at Barn Elms,
they'll have to send over and borrow my teaspoons. There hasn't been a
party at Barn Elms for forty years, that they haven't done it, and I
always borrow Jane Temple's salad-bowl and punch-ladles whenever I have
company."
"I don't think there will be any wedding feast there," answered
Throckmorton.
"Jacky wants one, _I_ know," said Mrs. Sherrard, very knowingly. "Jacky
loves a racket."
"Quite naturally--at her age."
"Oh, yes, of course--her age, as you say. I shall tell Edmund Morford to
pay you a pastoral visit, as he always does upon the eve of marriages,
to instruct you in the duties of the married state."
"Then I shall tell Edmund Morford that I know considerably more about my
duties in the premises than he does; and I'll shut him up before he has
opened his mouth, as Sweeney would say."
"If anybody _could_ shut my nephew up, I believe it is you, George
Throckmorton. Has Jane Temple suggested that you should join the church
yet?"
"She suggests it to me every time I go to Barn Elms, and whenever I go
off for a lover's stroll with Jacqueline, Mrs. Temple tells me I ought
to go home and seek salvation."
"And do you mind her?" asked Mrs. Sherrard, quite gravely; at which
Throckmorton gave her a look that was dangerously near a wink.
Mrs. Sherrard drove off, triumphant. She had got at the whole thing, in
spite of Jane Temple.
The wedding preparations went bravely along; carried on chiefly by
Judith. Jacqueline had set her heart on a white silk wedding dress,
which for a time eclipsed everything else on her horizon. Mrs. Temple
declared that it was extravagant, but Judith, by keen persuasion,
succeeded in getting the wedding-gown. She made it with her own hands,
and across the front she designed a beautiful and intricate embroidery,
to be worked by her.
"Judith, you will kill yourself over that wedding-gown," Mrs. Temple
once remarked. "You have drawn such an elaborate design upon it that you
will have to work night and day to get it finished."
"I shall simply have to be a little more industrious than usual,"
replied Judith, with the deep flush that now alternated with extreme
paleness.
Jacqueline herself was deeply interested in this gown; more so than in
any particular of the coming wedding. Judith had marked off for herself
a certain task of work each day upon the embroidery of the gown. Every
night, when she stopped at the end of her task, it was as if another
stone were laid upon her heart. Throckmorton had noticed her industry,
and had admired her handiwork, which she proudly showed him.
"But you are getting white and thin over it," he said. "Wouldn't it be
better that Jacqueline should not have such a beautiful frock, than for
you to work yourself ill over it? I have a great mind to speak to Mrs.
Temple about it."
"No, no, pray don't!" cried Judith, with a kind of breathless eagerness.
"It would break my heart not to finish it."
Throckmorton looked at her closely. She was not given to that kind of
talk. But suddenly she began telling him a funny story of Mrs. Sherrard
coming over to pump Mrs. Temple about the coming event, and then she
laughed and made him laugh too. Walking back home that night, he found
himself speculating on this development of fun and merriment in
Judith--a thing she had always suppressed and kept in abeyance until
lately.
"Certainly she is in better spirits--more like what one can see her
natural self is in the last month or two," he thought; and then he began
to think what a very sweet and natural woman she was, and to hope that,
when Jacqueline was her age, she would have developed into something
like Judith. But he never liked to look very far into the future with
Jacqueline.
As the time drew nearer for the wedding, Freke's continued presence at
Barn Elms became more marked. He did not avoid Throckmorton any longer,
who thought no more of it than he did of Jack's frequent visits. Jack
had quite got over any chagrin or disappointment he might have felt, and
was kindness and attention itself to Jacqueline. Throckmorton sometimes
felt annoyed and discouraged at seeing how much more Jacqueline had in
common with Jack than with himself. They were on the terms of a brother
and sister--Jack teasing and joking, yet unvaryingly kind to her, and
Jacqueline always overflowing with talk to him, while with Throckmorton
she was sometimes at a loss for words. But one glance from her dark
eyes--that peculiar witching glance that had fixed Throckmorton's
attention on her that very first Sunday in church--could always make
amends to him. As for Freke, he came and went with his violin under his
arm, and nobody attached any importance to him except Judith, who
honored him with the same still, guarded ill-will that Freke perfectly
recognized, and did not apparently trouble himself about. His eternal
presence in the house was a nightmare to Judith. She wondered if he
would keep on that way after Jacqueline was gone--when Jacqueline was
mistress of Millenbeck; but she could not dwell on that without a
tightening at her heart. At all events, it would soon be over.
Mrs. Temple had at last got interested in the wedding preparations, and
everything was going on famously until about two weeks before the
wedding, when one day General Temple got a letter. There was to be a
reunion of Beverley's old command at Richmond, and it was desired that
the Temple family should attend.
Such a request was sacred in the eyes of General and Mrs. Temple. It was
at once decided that General Temple must go, and he insisted that Mrs.
Temple should go also. She was only too willing. Inconvenient as it
might otherwise be to leave home, the idea of having Beverley talked of,
eulogized, remembered, was too near the idolatrous mother's heart to be
foregone. The invitation also included Judith, but it was clearly
impossible for both Judith and Mrs. Temple to leave Barn Elms at the
same time just then; so it was quickly settled, to Judith's infinite
relief, that Mrs. Temple should be the one to go. Mrs. Temple was helped
to a decision by the reflection that Judith, being young and handsome,
it was not impossible that some miscreant might suggest the possibility
of her marrying again; and, without uttering this impious thought, it
had its influence upon her. So it was fixed that, within a day or two,
they were to start, and would be gone probably four days. Throckmorton
was vexed at the decision--vexed at the entire readiness to sacrifice
Jacqueline's convenience to that of the dead and gone Beverley. But he
wisely said nothing; in a little while Jacqueline would have some one
that would always consider her first. But suddenly Jacqueline raised a
tempest by declaring that she wanted to go with her father and mother as
far as a certain station on the railroad, near Richmond, and thence to
pay a visit to her Aunt Susan Steptoe. Now, Jacqueline had never showed
the slightest fondness for this Aunt Steptoe, and, in fact, was
singularly lacking in family affection, after the Virginia pattern,
which takes in a whole family connection. Consequently, the notion was
the more remarkable. When it was first broached, it was simply
pooh-poohed by the general, and calmly ignored by Mrs. Temple. Judith
looked at her with reproachful eyes.
"You know, Jacqueline, there is no earthly reason for such a whim; and I
am sure Major Throckmorton would not like it."
"It's of no consequence what Major Throckmorton thinks about it!" cried
Jacqueline, unterrified by a warning light in Judith's eye--it always
made Judith angry when Jacqueline spoke slightingly of Throckmorton.
But Jacqueline held to her notion with the most singular and startling
pertinacity. Usually a word or two from Judith would bring her back to
the basis of common sense; but in this case, nothing Judith could say
would alter Jacqueline's determination. She was tired of wedding
clothes--tired of Barn Elms--tired of everybody; in fact, she made no
secret to Judith of being tired of Throckmorton, and wanting to escape
from him for a time, if only for four days. She forced her mother to
listen to her, and would take no denial. At last she hit upon the
argument to move Mrs. Temple. It was the last request she had to make
until she was married, and, if Mrs. Temple could do so much for the dead
Beverley, she certainly could not refuse this trifling request from the
living Jacqueline. Mrs. Temple turned pale at this; and she faltered out
that, childish and unreasonable as the scheme was, she would
agree--provided Throckmorton gave his consent.
That night, when Throckmorton came for his usual visit, Jacqueline met
him at the hall-door with a tenderness that surprised and charmed him.
It was so sweet, he could hardly believe it to be true. But, before the
evening was over, Jacqueline demanded payment in the shape of his
consent that she should pay this little visit to her Aunt Susan.
"Damn Aunt Susan!" was Throckmorton's inward remark at this; and he
managed to convey practically the same idea to Jacqueline. But it did no
good. Jacqueline had the scheme in her head, and it must be carried out.
It was in vain that Throckmorton reasoned gently with her. He had often
heard that weak women were the most intractable in the world, and the
recollection made him wince when he saw how dense this lovely young
creature was to common sense. But she was so ineffably pretty--she
leaned her bright head on his shoulder and pleaded--and, of course,
after a while, Throckmorton yielded, ostensibly because Jacqueline asked
him so sweetly, but really because she was utterly impervious to reason.
When the consent was at last wheedled out of him, Throckmorton felt sore
at heart and humiliated. He also felt, for a brave man, a little
frightened. How often was this sort of thing going to happen? It was
true that, after he was married, he could use his authority as
Jacqueline's husband to prevent her from doing anything particularly
foolish, but it did not please him that he should rule his wife as if
she were a child. Jacqueline saw nothing of Throckmorton's secret
dissatisfaction; but Judith, with the clairvoyance of love, saw it in an
instant. For the first time in her life, she followed him out into the
hall, where he was getting into his overcoat, with rather a black
countenance.
"Don't be troubled about it," she said, in her charming way. "She is so
young--she will learn so much from you!"
Throckmorton took Judith's hand in his. She made no resistance this
time--that quick inner sense told her instinctively that there was
something comforting to him in her gentle and womanly clasp. He looked
at her with a somber expression on his face that gradually lightened.
"Do you think she will ever be different?"
"Yes," cried Judith, gayly. "How perfectly ignorant you are of love! I
declare you are worse than Jacqueline. It's the greatest reformer in the
world--the most cunning teacher as well. It will teach Jacqueline all
she ought to know; but it can't do it at once."
"But does she love me?" asked Throckmorton, smiling a little.
"How could she help it?" answered Judith, turning her head archly, and
implying that Throckmorton considered himself a lady-killer--which made
him laugh, and sent him off home in a little better humor with the world
and himself.
Meanwhile, back in the drawing-room, Jacqueline was having a
conversation with Simon Peter, who was raking down the fire for the
night. General and Mrs. Temple had left the room. Usually Jacqueline
slipped off to bed an hour before they did; but to-night she lingered,
standing over the fire with one little foot on the brass fender.
"How does it look to-night, Uncle Simon?" she asked, meaning how did the
sky look, and what were the chances for good weather.
"Hit looks mighty cu'rus to me, Miss Jacky," answered Simon Peter, in a
queer sort of a voice that made Jacqueline stare at him. "I seed two
tuckey-buzzards flyin' ober de house tog'er'r--and dat's a sign--"
"A sign of what?"
"A sign 'tain' gwi' be no weddin' at Barn Elms dis year."
Jacqueline turned a little pale. It had not been a great many years
since she had fully believed every one of Simon Peter's signs and omens;
and even now, his solemn prophecies sent a chill to her childish heart.
"An'," continued Simon Peter, advancing and raising a prophetic
forefinger, "dis heah night I done heah de owls hootin' 'Tu-whoo,
tu-whoo, tu-whoo!'--three times, dat ar way--dat doan' means nuttin'
but a funeral, when owls hoots dat away."
Jacqueline shuddered.
"O Uncle Simon, hush!"
"I tole you kase you arsk me," replied Simon Peter, stolidly; and at
that moment Delilah came in.
"O mammy," cried Jacqueline, fairly bursting into tears, "you don't know
what awful signs and things Uncle Simon has been seeing--funerals, and
buzzards, and no wedding!"
"He have, have he!" snapped Delilah, with wrath and menace. "Simon
Peter, he su't'ny is de foolishest nigger I ever seed. He ain' never
got 'ligion good; he allus wuz a blackslider, an' heah he come skeerin'
my little missy ter def wid he buzzards an' he things!"
Simon Peter, who bore this marital assault with meekness, copied from
General Temple, only remarked sheepishly:
"I done see de signs; an', Miss Jacky, she arsk me, an' I done tole her
'bout de two buzzards."
"Wid de tails tied tog'er'r, I reckon!" answered Delilah, with withering
sarcasm; "an' maybe dey wuz gwi' fly ter Doc Wortley's ter see ef
anybody gwi' die soon.--Doan' you min' Simon Peter, honey; jes' come wid
mammy up-sty'ars an' she holp you to ondress an' put you in yo' bed."
Jacqueline went off, and in half an hour was tucked snugly in the great
four-poster. But she would not let Delilah leave her. She kept her
pulling the window-curtains this way and that, then raking down the fire
because the light from the blazing logs hurt her eyes, and then
stirring the flames into a blaze so that she might see the shadows on
the wall. At last, however, Delilah got out, Jacqueline calling after
her disconsolately:
"O mammy, do you believe in the two buzzards flying--"
"You jes' shet dat little mouf, an' go ter sleep, honey," was Delilah's
sensible reply, as she went out.
The next day the whole party got off, General Temple leaving directions
enough behind him to last if he were going to Turkey instead of to
Richmond. Jacqueline at the last seemed loath to part from Judith. She
said good-by half a dozen times, and wept a little at parting. There
would be no need of letters, as they would only be gone four days.
Jacqueline was to stop off at the station, and join her father and
mother there on their return from Richmond, getting home ten days before
the wedding. There was some talk of asking Mrs. Sherrard to come over
and stay with Judith during the absence of General and Mrs. Temple, but
Judith protested. With her child she would not suffer for company, and
the work on Jacqueline's wedding-dress would keep her busily employed,
while Delilah and Simon Peter were protection enough for her at night.
Besides this, Throckmorton and Jack would be over every day to look
after her. When it was all arranged, Judith felt a sensation of
gladness. She would have four days in which she would not be compelled
to play her silent and desperate part. She could weep all night without
the fear that Mrs. Temple's clear eyes would notice how pale and worn
she was in the morning; she could relax a little the continual tension
on her nerves, her feelings, her expression. So, when they were gone,
she came back into the lonely house, and, leaving Beverley with his
mammy, went up to her own room, and taking out the white silk
wedding-gown went to work on it with a pale, unhappy face; she had dared
not show an unhappy face before.
The day passed quickly enough, and the short winter afternoon closed in.
Judith would no longer take time for her usual afternoon walk; every
moment must be devoted to Jacqueline's gown. About eight o'clock, as
she sat in the drawing-room, stitching away, while overhead in her
own room Delilah watched the little Beverley as he slept, she heard
Throckmorton's step upon the porch. As she heard it, she gave a slight
start, and put her hand on her heart--something she always felt an
involuntary inclination to do, and which she had to watch herself to
prevent. Throckmorton came in, and greeted her with his usual graceful
kindness.
"I thought I would come over and see that nobody stole you and
Beverley," he said.
"There's no danger for me," answered Judith; "but for a beautiful boy
like my boy--why, he's always in danger of being stolen."
Throckmorton scoffed at this.
In five minutes they were seated together, having the first real
_tete-a-tete_ of their lives. Judith sat under the mellow gleam of the
tall, old-fashioned lamp, the light falling on her chestnut hair and
black dress and the billowy expanse of white silk spread over her lap,
making high white lights and rich shadows. Throckmorton had often
admired her as she sewed. Sewing was a peculiarly gracious and feminine
employment, he thought, and Judith's sewing, when he saw it, was always
something artistic like what she was now doing. Throckmorton lay back in
one corner of the great sofa, his feet stretched out to the fire. They
talked occasionally, but there were long stretches of silence when the
only sound was the crackling of the wood-fire and the dropping of the
embers. Yet the unity was complete; there is no companionship so real
as that which admits of perfect silence. Throckmorton, on the whole,
though, talked more than usual. Something in Judith always inspired him
to speak of things that he rarely mentioned at all. They talked a little
of Jacqueline, but there were innumerable subjects on which they found
themselves in sympathy. The evening passed quickly for both. When
Throckmorton had gone, and the house was shut up for the night, Judith
felt that she had passed the evening in a sort of shadowy happiness; it
would have been happiness itself, except that in ten days more it would
be wrong even to think of Throckmorton.
Two days more passed. Every evening Throckmorton found himself making
his way toward Barn Elms. Each evening passed in the same quiet, simple
fashion, but yet there was something different to Throckmorton from
any evenings he had ever spent in his life. As for Judith, after the
first one, she began to look forward with feverish eagerness to the
evening. She lived all day in expectation of that two hours' talk with
Throckmorton. She dressed for him; she hurried little Beverley to bed
that she might be ready for him. Her eyes assumed a new brilliancy, and
she became handsomer day by day.
On the day that the general and Mrs. Temple were to leave for home a
letter arrived from Mrs. Temple. The general had been seized with an
acute attack of gout, and it would probably take two or three days
nursing to bring him around, so that they would not be home until the
last of the week. Mrs. Temple had written to Jacqueline, and would write
again in a day or two, notifying Judith when to send to the river
landing for them. The delay was peculiarly inconvenient then, but it was
God's will. Mrs. Temple never had any trouble in reconciling herself to
God's will, except where Beverley was concerned.
Not a line had been received from Jacqueline. It did not surprise
Judith, because Jacqueline hated letter-writing; but Throckmorton
admitted, in an embarrassed way, that he had written to her, but she had
not answered his letter.
During all this time Freke had not put in an appearance, for which
Judith was devoutly thankful.
On the fifth evening that Throckmorton went his way to Barn Elms, it
occurred to him that he went there oftener when Jacqueline was away than
when she was there, and he was glad there were no gossiping tongues to
wag about it. But luckily little Beverley, Delilah, and Simon Peter were
the only three persons who knew where Throckmorton spent his evenings,
and none of them were either carping or critical.
He found Judith as usual in the drawing-room, and as usual embroidering
on the wedding-dress. But there was something strange about her
appearance; she looked altogether different from what she usually
did--more girlish, more unrestrained. Throckmorton could not make it out
for a long time. Then he said, suddenly, "You have left off your widow's
cap."
Judith let her hands fall into her lap, and looked at him with
glittering eyes.
"Yes," she said, calmly. "I grew intolerably tired of being a hypocrite,
and to-night I determined for once to be my true self, so I laid aside
my widow's cap. I believe, if I had owned a white gown, I should have
put it on."
Throckmorton was so startled that he rose to his feet. Judith rose, too,
letting the white silk fall in a heap on the floor.
"Are you surprised?" she asked, with suppressed excitement. "Well, so am
I. But I will tell you--what I never dared breathe before--I am no true
widow to Beverley Temple's memory. I never loved him. I married him
because--because I did not know any better, I suppose. I spent two
miserable weeks as his wife. I was beginning to find out--and then he
went away, and almost before I realized it, he was killed." She
hesitated for a moment; the picture of Throckmorton and Beverley in
their life-and-death struggle came quickly before her eyes. Throckmorton
was too dazed, astounded, confounded, to open his mouth. He only looked
at her as she stood upright, trembling and red and pale by turns.
"I had no friends but General and Mrs. Temple; he was my guardian. You
know, I had neither father nor mother, brother nor sister. I felt the
most acute remorse for Beverley, and the most intense pity for him, cut
off as he was, and I fancied I felt the profoundest grief. One suffers
in sympathy, you know, and, when I saw his mother's pitiable sorrow, it
made me feel sorry too. The world--_my_ world--saw me a broken-hearted
widow--a widow while I was almost a bride. Don't you think any woman
of feeling would have done as I did--tried to atone to the man I had
mistakenly married by being true to his memory? I determined to devote
my life to his father and mother; and, in some way I can't explain,
except that you know how Mrs. Temple is, I pretended that my heart was
broken; but I tell you, Beverley Temple never touched my heart, either
in life or death, although I did not know it then. But for--for some
time the deceit has lain heavy upon me. I am tired of pretending to be
what I am not. I wish for life, for love, for happiness."
She stopped and threw herself into a chair with an _abandon_ that
Throckmorton had never seen before. Still, he did not utter a word. But
Judith knew that he was keenly observing her, feeling for her, and even
deeply moved by what she told him.
"So to-night the feeling was so strong upon me, I took off my widow's
cap and threw it on the floor; it was a sudden impulse, just as I was
leaving my room, and I took Beverley's picture from around my neck, and
I didn't have the courage to throw it in the fire as I wanted to; I
only"--with a nervous laugh--"put it in my pocket."
She took the picture from her dress and handed it him. Throckmorton
received it mechanically, but, the instant his eyes fell upon it, his
countenance changed. In a moment or two he said, in an indescribable
voice:
"I know this face well; he was killed on the 14th of April. I shall
never forget that face to my dying day."
"I know all about it," responded Judith, rising and coming toward him;
"Freke told me."
Her excitement was no longer suppressed, and Throckmorton was deeply
agitated. He took Judith's hand.
"But did he tell you all? _I_ did not fire the shot that killed your
husband; it was fired by one of his own men--probably aimed for me. I
never succeeded in drawing my pistol at all. The first I knew, in those
frightful moments, was when he shrieked and threw up his arms. I thought
he would never breathe again."
"But he lived some hours," continued Judith, "and--and--I thought it was
you, and I ought to have hated you for it, but I could not; I could not;
and now, God is so good!"
She dropped into a chair. Throckmorton felt as if the world were coming
to an end, his ideas about Judith were being so quickly and strangely
transformed. He was too stupefied to speak, and for five minutes there
was a dead silence between them. Then Throckmorton's strong common sense
awoke. He went to her and took her hand.
"For your own sake, for your child's sake, be careful. Do not tell any
one what you have told me. The penalty of deception is great, and your
penalty will be to keep it up a little while longer. When I am married
to Jacqueline, you will have a friend, a home. Then, if you want to take
off those black garments, to be yourself, you may count on me; but, for
the present, be prudent. You are so impulsive."
But Judith now was weeping violently and accusing herself. The reaction
had come. Throckmorton felt strangely thrilled by her emotion. He
comforted her, he held her hands, and even pressed kisses on them. In a
few minutes he had soothed her. The old habits of self-control came back
to her. She rallied bravely, and in half an hour she was quite composed.
But it was the composure of despair. She remembered, then, had
Throckmorton but loved her, the only obstacle between them would have
been shown to be imaginary.
Throckmorton stayed late. In spite of Judith's quietness, he felt
unhappy about her. She was too quiet, too deathly pale. He felt an
intense pity for her, and he feared that she and her child would not
much longer find a home under the roof of Barn Elms.
Three days more passed. There was still no word from Jacqueline, and
Mrs. Temple wrote that the general's gout bade fair to be a much more
serious matter than they had first anticipated. It might be that the
wedding--which was to be of the quietest sort--might have to be
postponed. But that was nothing to Mrs. Temple and the general, who
reveled in the luxury of a meeting where Beverley was remembered,
praised, and eulogized as can be done only by Southerners. Nor did it
seem to matter to Jacqueline. In fact, Throckmorton and Judith appeared
to be the only persons particularly interested in it. As for Freke, he
had not been seen by either of them since the day the Barn Elms people
left.
Throckmorton continued to spend his evenings at Barn Elms. The idea of
Judith sitting solitary and alone in the drawing-room the whole long,
dull evening, drew him irresistibly. Not one line had Jacqueline
written, either to him or to Judith. Nor had Throckmorton written again
to her. He was not the man to give a woman more than one opportunity to
snub him. In his heart he was cruelly mortified; his pride, of which he
had much, was hurt. He feared that it was a part of that arrogance which
first youth shows to maturity.
On the eighth day after Jacqueline's departure something like alarm
began to possess Judith. She called it superstition, and tried to put it
away from her. The day had been dull and gloomy--a fine, drizzling rain
falling. The flat, monotonous landscape looked inexpressibly dreary in
the gray mist that hung low over the trees. It was dark long before six
o'clock. The night had closed in, and Judith, sitting alone in the
drawing-room, had risen to light the lamp, when she heard the front door
open softly, and the next instant she recognized Jacqueline's peculiar
light step--so light that even Mrs. Temple's keen ears could not always
detect it when fits of restlessness seized the girl at night, and she
would walk up and down her room over her mother's head. And in a moment
Jacqueline came into the room, and up to Judith, and looked at her with
strange, agonized eyes.
The surprise, the shock of seeing her at that hour and in that way, was
extreme; and Judith's first words as her hands fell on Jacqueline's
shoulder were:
"Jacqueline, you are wet through."
"I know it," answered Jacqueline, in a voice as unlike her own as her
looks; "I have been out in the rain for hours and hours!"
"What is the matter with you?" cried Judith, taking hold of her.
"Something dreadful has happened!"
"Dreadful enough for me!" replied Jacqueline, white and dry-eyed.
"What is it?" Judith was not easily frightened, but she trembled as she
spoke.
"Everything!" answered Jacqueline. "In the first place, I have left
Freke. That broke my heart!"
"Left Freke!"
"Yes. I didn't go to Aunt Steptoe's. I got off at the station and Freke
was there. He took me to a minister's and got him to marry us. The man
could hardly read and write, and he said something about a license; but
Freke gave him fifty dollars, and he performed the ceremony."
Judith caught hold of her, to see if she were really in the flesh,
talking in this way.
"Don't hold me so hard, Judith. I will tell you all I can; but I feel as
if I should die, I am so weak and ill--" and she suddenly began to cough
violently. Judith ran and got her a glass of wine. The first idea in her
mind was, not the poor, deluded child, but Throckmorton.
"But where is Freke--and your father and mother?--O Jacqueline,
Jacqueline!"
"Don't reproach me, Judith. But for you I would never have returned. My
father and mother know nothing about it. Freke found out they were yet
in Richmond. If they had been at Barn Elms, I don't think I ever would
have had the courage to come back. The feeling soon came to me that I
had committed a great wrong in marrying Freke; and then--and then--he
told me perhaps we weren't married at all in Virginia, and so I would
have to go with him out to the place--somewhere in the West--and be
married to him straight and right."
"If Freke had never committed any other wrong in his whole life, his
telling you that made him deserve to be killed!" cried Judith.
"Don't say a word against Freke," said Jacqueline, a new anger blazing
up in her eyes. "I love Freke; it almost kills me when I think I may
never see him again, for I ran away from him. At first I thought all the
time of the trouble I should bring upon you all. I could see my father's
gray head sink down in his hands. I could imagine how my mother would
shut herself up in her room as she did when Beverley died. They had
always thought so little of me that it gave me a kind of triumph when I
remembered, 'They'll have to think about me now!'"
"And Throckmorton?"
"I never thought about him at all. As Freke said, he was entirely too
old for me. But I will not speak of him. He knew I never loved him--or
he ought to have known it. Then, when Freke found out that mamma and
papa were still in Richmond, it came to me like a flash that I could get
home, and I was sure of one friend, and only one in the world
now--yourself. And I thought you were so clever you could manage to keep
anybody from finding out where I had been. I seemed to hear your voice
calling to me all the time, and every moment it seemed to crush me more
and more that Freke was a divorced man, and that, however he might say
he was free, he was not. So, we were staying at a little town through
which the railroad passed, and Freke had to go into Richmond yesterday
to get some money, and my conscience suddenly rose up and tortured me,
and I couldn't stay another moment--and, mind you, Judith, I love Freke.
So I took the train all alone, and made the boat, and landed at Oak
Point about twelve o'clock. I pretended to be surprised that nobody was
there to meet me, and said I would walk as far as Turkey Thicket--you
know it is only a little way from the landing. But, of course, I did
not. Then I was so afraid that some one would see me that, instead of
taking the main road, I came through the fields and by-paths. I believe
I have walked ten miles instead of six, from Oak Point--and it was
raining, too. I was nearly frightened out of my life--frightened by
negroes and stray dogs, and afraid that I should see Freke every moment
before me, and, if he should overtake me, I knew I should go back with
him. I can no more resist him when he is with me than I can stop
breathing. Well, with weakness--for I felt ill from the moment I
started--and with fear, and being so tired, and the rain, I thought I
should die before I reached here. But now I am home--home!--"
Jacqueline's voice rose in a piteous cry. She had been weeping all the
time, but now she burst into a perfect tempest of sobs and tears that
shook her like a leaf.
In her quiet life Judith had never been brought face to face with any
terrible emergency, and this one unnerved and horrified her so that for
a time she was as helpless as Jacqueline. She walked the floor,
struggling with the wild impulse to send for Throckmorton; that he alone
could tell them what to do; and else she and the poor child would sink
under the horror of the situation, for to her simple and straightforward
mind both conscience and the social code were unalterably opposed to
considering a divorced man as a single man. But some instinct of common
sense saved her--saved her even from calling Delilah, and caused her to
face the thing alone. She gave Jacqueline brandy, she rubbed her
vigorously; she even got her up-stairs alone and into her bed. By that
time the violence of her emotions was spent; Jacqueline lay in the large
four-poster perfectly calm and white. After a while even a sense of
physical well-being seemed to possess her; warmth and light and
stimulation had their effect. She fell into a heavy sleep, but Judith
was terrified to notice her pallor give place to a crimson flush on her
face, and her icy hands grow burning hot. By that time Judith's
composure had partly returned. She called Delilah, who came in
wondering, and told her briefly that Jacqueline had come home
unexpectedly and was not well, without mentioning how she had come from
the river-landing. Delilah, who was not of a curious turn, saw for
herself that part of Judith's statement was true, for Jacqueline had a
burning fever. It was impossible to get Dr. Wortley before morning, but,
like most women who live in the country, Judith could cope with ordinary
ailments, and, whenever the doctor was called in, he always found that
the proper thing had been done beforehand.
But, besides Jacqueline's undeniable illness, the thought that tormented
Judith was how to keep the dreadful thing that had happened from
Jacqueline's father and mother and from the world. It must inevitably
come out that she had not been near Mrs. Steptoe's, and only the fact
that Jacqueline was a poor correspondent had kept it from being known
already. On the impulse of the moment, Judith sat down and wrote Mrs.
Steptoe a letter, begging her, for General and Mrs. Temple's sake, not
to mention until she heard further from Barn Elms, that Jacqueline had
not been with her; and as she wrote hurriedly and nervously, she could
hear Jacqueline's heavy and fitful breathing. Some simple remedies had
been applied, but Judith knew that the best thing for her was to sleep,
and so her troubled slumber was undisturbed except by her own feverish
mutterings. All the time it hung like a sword over Judith. "What will
Throckmorton say?" for, of course, he must be the first one to know it;
there could be no mercy in deceiving him. Judith, sitting before the
fire, gazing into it with troubled eyes and aching heart, began
thinking, pitying, praying for Throckmorton. Yes, it would be a
frightful blow to him. There would be no need for the wedding-gown now.
As this thought occurred to her, Judith rose and, going softly toward
the wardrobe where she kept her dainty work, took out the dress, and,
unwrapping it from the white cloth in which she laid it away so
carefully every night, spread it over her knees. How much love, despair,
and torture had been worked into that embroidery! "It is so pretty, it
is a pity it can't be used," she said to herself, absently, turning the
silk about in her fingers; and at that moment she heard a choking,
gurgling sound from the bed. Jacqueline was half sitting up, her head
supported on her arm, and a thin stream of blood was trickling from her
lips.
Judith, who for once lost her presence of mind, ran toward the bed, and,
supporting Jacqueline's head, called loudly for help. In her haste she
had thrown the dress almost across Jacqueline, and a few drops of blood
fell upon it.
"Look, look!" gasped Jacqueline; "my dress is being ruined!"
Judith heard Delilah running up the stairs in response to her frightened
call, but Jacqueline's eyes had such a strange expression in them that
she asked her involuntarily, as she tremblingly supported her:
"Jacqueline, do you know me?"
"Perfectly," answered Jacqueline. "I know everything about me."
Delilah, who was a natural-born nurse, was as calm as Judith was
agitated.
"'Tain' nuttin' tall, chile; 'scusin' 'tis er leetle speck o' blood fum
yo' th'oat. I kin stop it righter way"; and, sure enough, in ten minutes
she had applied some simple remedy and the blood ceased to flow.
Meanwhile Jacqueline, unable to speak, had motioned eagerly and
violently to Judith to remove the white silk dress. Judith threw it on a
chair. Jacqueline's eyes filled with tears.
"It is such a pity to have it ruined--and one's wedding-dress, too!"
"Hush-hush! you must not talk," cried Judith.
The flow of blood apparently was a trifle, and in a little while
Jacqueline lay back in the great, old-fashioned bed silent, deadly
white, but composed.
Judith, with overflowing eyes, folded up the white dress, but she could
not prevent some tears falling on it, and the dress, already stained
with blood, was also stained with tears. The thought of Jacqueline,
though, could not banish the thought of Throckmorton; the more so when
Jacqueline, beckoning, brought Judith close to her. Judith thought she
wanted something for her comfort.
"_You_ must tell him; he will take it better from you."
Jacqueline, lying wide awake in the bed, and Judith, sitting by her,
holding her hand, were both expectant of Throckmorton. At last, about
half-past eight, his firm step was heard on the porch. Judith's heart
leaped into her mouth; she did not exactly take in all the bearings of
what Jacqueline had told her, or whether she was or was not married to
Freke; and Throckmorton, with his knowledge of affairs, would know all.
She rose silently and went down-stairs, leaving Delilah with Jacqueline.
Throckmorton was standing before the fire in the drawing-room. There was
something in his determined eye and in his tone as he spoke to her that
struck a chill to Judith's heart.
"Jacqueline, has come, you know," she said.
"Yes, Simon Peter told me so at the door. It does not surprise me."
Judith remained silent for a few moments, when Throckmorton, suddenly
wheeling toward her, and looking her straight in the face, said, curtly:
"What is all this? She never was near Mrs. Steptoe's. I found out, by
having my letter returned to me by Mrs. Steptoe herself. What has made
her ill? Don't tremble so, but tell me--you know I have a right to know
it all."
But Judith continued to be silent and to tremble. She even began to
weep; but Throckmorton, taking her hand, said, firmly:
"There must be no concealments."
His own stern composure controlled Judith's agitation.
"All?" she asked, faintly.
"Yes--all!" he answered.
When Throckmorton used an authoritative tone with her, he could always
compel her; and so, scarcely knowing how she did it, with tears and
sobs, and faint deprecations for Jacqueline, she told him all. She
noticed Throckmorton's dark skin growing paler and paler; he began to
gnaw his iron-gray mustache--always a sign of extreme agitation with
him.
"Now, tell me this--collect your thoughts and don't cry so--does
she--does she love that--" He could not bring himself to utter Freke's
name.
Judith remained silent. Throckmorton, in his determination to make her
answer, seized her arm. It hurt her so that she could have cried out,
but she made no sound.
"Tell me!" he said, in a voice and manner so unlike his own gentle
courtesy, that Judith could scarcely have recognized it. But Judith was
obstinately silent. Nevertheless, she lifted her eyes to his with so
eloquent a plea for mercy for Jacqueline, that he was unconsciously
softened.
"You will not tell me!" he said, relaxing his fierce hold. "I can't make
you answer--you have a spirit like a soldier. But it makes no difference
now whether she loves him or not. If she were free to-morrow, I could
kill her with my own hands easier than I could marry her!--and yet--I
loved her well."
"But," cried Judith, putting her hand on his arm in her eagerness,
"something must be done. It must be managed so that people shall not
know it, until her father and mother have decided what is to be done. It
will almost kill them!"
"Yes. But if you can manage with Mrs. Steptoe--"
"I have already written to her."
"I am no lawyer, but it seems to me that it rests with Jacqueline
whether it is a marriage or not. But General and Mrs. Temple would
rather see her in her grave than married to any divorced man--and to
him!"
"And there is a good deal of doubt about his divorce, I believe," added
Judith.
"There is at present nothing to be done. General and Mrs. Temple will no
doubt be here as soon as possible; it is hardly worth while to alarm
them. Is she very ill, do you think?"
"I don't know--Jacqueline was always delicate. And--what of him--of
Freke?" continued Judith, in a trembling voice. "Is there to be no
punishment for him?"
Like a woman, Judith could not look at the case in its practical light;
but like a man, Throckmorton, in the midst of his horror, grief, and
surprise, yet retained his balance.
"Any punishment of him would react on her--to have her name made public
with his--Good God! But there is no power on earth to keep General
Temple from committing some frightful folly when he knows of it."
This was a new horror to Judith. A painful pause followed. Then Judith
said:
"How like Freke it was--how perfectly reckless of consequences! He is
unlike any man I ever saw or heard of. I believe, in his strange way, he
loves Jacqueline; but what does any one know of such a man!"
The absence of vindictiveness toward Freke, on Throckmorton's part,
surprised Judith; but, in truth, he scarcely thought of Freke: a
creature as weak and impressionable as Jacqueline was bound to succumb
to the first overmastering influence. Throckmorton himself had never
been able to get any real influence over her. Presently Judith said:
"One thing I do know--she wants your forgiveness."
"She has it, poor child!"
Then there was another pause. Throckmorton, after a while, rose to go.
"If you want anything, send for me. I shall be over early in the
morning." He hesitated a moment, and then said: "This has been a
strange experience for me; but it is over--" And then, as if checking a
confession, went out of the room and out of the house.
When Judith went up-stairs, Jacqueline was still sleeping, but presently
she wakened, and turned her lovely, troubled eyes on Judith.
"He is very sorry, Jacqueline, and he forgives you and will trouble you
no more," she whispered. A look of relief came into Jacqueline's face.
She closed her eyes as if to sleep.