Judith’s blush lasted until she reached the drawing-room,and made her not less handsome. There the gentlemen were being dazzled by still further splendors. This room, which was large and of stately proportions, was really handsome. Throckmorton, who cared nothing for luxury, and whose personal habits were simplicity itself, was yet too broad-minded to impress his own tastes upon anybody else. Since most people liked luxury, he had his house made luxurious; and his own room was the only plain one in it. Jack’s was a perfect bower, “more fit,” as Throckmorton remarked with good-natured sarcasm, “for a young lady’s boudoir than a bunk for a hulking youngster.” In the same way Throckmorton managed to dress like a gentleman on what Jack spent on hats and canes and cravats; but nobody ever knew whether Throckmorton’s clothes were new or old. His personality eclipsed all his belongings.
Jacqueline was completely subdued by the luxury around her. No human soul ever loved these pleasant things of life better than she loved them. Comfort and beauty and luxury were as the breath of life to her. She had hungered and thirsted for them ever since she could remember. Going down the stairs she caught Judith’s hand, with a quick, childish grasp. The lights, the glitter, almost took her breath away; and when she saw a great mound of roses on the drawing-room table, got from Norfolk by the phenomenal Sweeney, she almost screamed with delight.
“God bless my soul, this is pleasant!” remarked Dr. Wortley, rubbing his hands cheerfully before the drawing-room fire, where the gentlemen, including Morford and Freke, were assembled. “Here we are all met again, under Millenbeck’s roof, as we were before the war. Let by-gones be by-gones, say I, about the war.”
“Amen,” answered Mrs. Temple, after a little pause, piously and sweetly.
Sweeney, who could make quite a dashing figure as a waiter, now appeared, dressed in faultless evening costume of much newer fashion than Throckmorton’s, and announced dinner. Throckmorton, with his most graceful air—for he was on his mettle in his own house, and with those charming, unsophisticated women—gave his arm to Mrs. Temple; the general, with a grand flourish, did the same to Mrs. Sherrard; Judith had the doctor of divinity on one hand and the doctor of medicine on the other and Jacqueline brought up the rear with Jack Throckmorton and Temple Freke. Judith, when she saw this arrangement, comforted herself with the reflection that, if anybody could counteract Freke’s influence over Jacqueline, it was Jack Throckmorton, whom Jacqueline candidly acknowledged was infinitely more attractive to her than the master of Millenbeck.
But Jacqueline needed no counteraction. Freke, who read her perfectly, was secretly amused, and annoyedas well, when he saw that Jacqueline was every moment more carried away by Throckmorton’s wax-candles and carved chairs and embroidered screens and onyx tables, and glass and plate. He felt not one thrill of the jealousy of Throckmorton, where Jacqueline was concerned, that Throckmorton sometimes felt for him, because he was infinitely more astute in the knowledge of human and especially feminine weaknesses and follies; and he saw that the chairs and tables at Millenbeck were much more fascinating to Jacqueline than Throckmorton with his matured grace, his manly dignity. Freke, too, having long since worn out his emotions, except that slight lapse as regarded Judith, for whom he alwaysfeltsomething—admiration, or pity, or a desire to be revenged—had an acute judgment of women which was quite unbiased by the way any particular woman treated or felt toward him. Judith, although she hated him, and he frankly admitted she had cause to, he ranked infinitely above Jacqueline. He had seen, long before, that Jacqueline, if she ever seriously tried, could draw Throckmorton by a thread, and it gave Freke a certain contempt for Throckmorton’s taste and perception. Any man who could prefer Jacqueline to Judith was, in Freke’s esteem, wanting in taste; for, after all, he considered these things more as matters of taste than anything else.
The dinner was very merry. When the generalhad told his fifth long-winded story of his adventures and hair-breadth escapes during the war, Mrs. Temple, with a glance, shut him up. Freke was in his element at a dinner-table, and told some ridiculous stories about the straits to which he had been reduced during his seven years’ absence in Europe—“when,” as he explained “my laudable desire to acquire knowledge and virtue threatened to be balked at every moment by my uncle getting me home. However, I managed to stay.” He told with much gravity how he had been occasionally reduced to his fiddle for means of raising the wind, and had figured in concert programmes as Signor Tempolino, at which stories all shouted with laughter except Mrs. Temple and the general—Mrs. Temple sighing, and the general scowling prodigiously. Edmund Morford, who was afraid that laughing was injurious to his dignity, tried not to smile, but Freke was too comical for him.
Amid all the laughter and jollity and good-cheer, Jacqueline sat, glancing shyly up at Throckmorton once in a while with a look that Nature had endowed her with, and which, had she but known it, was a full equivalent to a fortune. She had never, in all her simple provincial life, seen anything like this—endless forks and spoons at the table; queer ways of serving queerer things; an easy-cushioned chair to sit in; no darns or patches in the damask; and the aroma of wealth, an easy income everywhere. The desireto own all this suddenly took possession of her. At the moment this dawned upon her mind, she actually started, and, opening her fan in a flutter, she knocked over a wine-glass, which Jack deftly replaced without stopping in his conversation. Then she began to study Throckmorton under her eyelashes. He was not so old, after all, and did not have the gout, like her father. And then she caught his kind eyes fixed on her, and flashed him back a look that thrilled him. Jack was talking to her, but she managed to convey subtly to Throckmorton that she was not listening to Jack, which pleased the major very much, who had heretofore found Jack a dangerous rival in all his looks and words with Jacqueline.
Freke, telling his funny stories, did not for one moment pretermit his study of the little comedy before him—Jacqueline and Throckmorton and Judith. It was as plain as print to him. Judith, in her black gown, which opened at the throat and showed the white pillar of her neck, and with half-sleeves that revealed the milky whiteness of her slender arms, sat midway the table, just opposite Jacqueline. Usually Judith’s color was as delicate as a wild rose, but to-night it was a carnation flush.
“Is Throckmorton a fool?” thought Freke, in the midst of an interval given over to laughter at some of his stories, which were as short and pithy as General Temple’s were sapless and long drawn out; forThrockmorton, who did nothing by halves, and was constitutionally averse to dawdling, returned Jacqueline’s glances with compound interest. Before they left the table, two persons had seen the promising beginning of the affair, and only two, none of the others having a suspicion. These two were Freke and Judith.
The knowledge came quickly to Judith. Women can live ages of agony in a moment over these things. Judith, smiling, graceful, waving her large black fan sedately to and fro, by all odds the handsomest as well as the most gifted woman there, felt something tearing at her heart-strings, that she could have screamed aloud with pain. But even Freke, who saw everything nearly, did not see that; he only surmised it. It was nearly ten o’clock before they went back into the drawing-room. Throckmorton gave nobody occasion to say that he devoted himself particularly to any of the four women who were his guests; but his look, his talk, his manner to Jacqueline underwent a subtile change; and when he sat and talked to Judith he thought what a sweet sister she would make, and blessed her for her tenderness to Jacqueline. Judith’s color had been gradually fading from the moment she caught Throckmorton’s glance at Jacqueline. She was now quite pale, and less animated, less interesting, than Throckmorton ever remembered to have seen her. At something he said to her, she gave ananswer so wide of the mark that she felt ashamed and apologized.
“I was thinking of my child at that moment and wondering if he were asleep,” she said.
From the moment of that first meaning glance of Throckmorton’s at Jacqueline, the evening had spun out interminably to Judith. Mrs. Temple noticed it with secret approval, as a sign of loyalty to her widowhood.
At eleven o’clock a move was made to go, when Throckmorton suddenly remembered that he had not showed them his modest conservatory, which appeared quite imposing to their provincial eyes. He took Judith into the little glass room opening off the hall. It was very hot, very damp, and very close, as such places usually are, and full of a faint, sickly perfume. Freke followed them in. At last he had got his chance. He began to talk in his easy, unconstrained way, and in a minute or two had got the conversation around to something they had been speaking of the night of the party at Turkey Thicket.
“You were saying,” said Freke, “something about a bad quarter of an hour you had with that old sorrel horse of yours—”
“Well, I should say it was a bad quarter of an hour,” answered Throckmorton. “To be ridden down and knocked off my horse was bad enough, with that strapping fellow pinioning my arms to my side so Icouldn’t draw my pistol; and old Tartar, perfectly mad with fright—the only time I ever knew him to be so demoralized—tearing at the reins that wouldn’t break and that I couldn’t loose my arm from, and every time I looked up I saw his fore-feet in the air ready to come down on me—”
“And what sort of a looking fellow was it you say that rode you down?”
“A tall, blonde fellow—an officer evidently.—Good God! Mrs. Beverley, what is the matter?” For the color had dropped out of Judith’s face as the mercury drops out of the tube, and she was gazing with wide, wild eyes at Throckmorton. How often had she heard that grewsome story—even that the plunging horse was a sorrel! But at least Freke should not see her break down. She heard herself saying, in a strange, unnatural voice:
“Nothing. I think it is too warm for me in here.” Throckmorton took her by the arm and led her back into the hall, and to a small window which he opened. He felt like a brute for mentioning anything connected with the war—of course it must be intensely painful to Judith—but she stopped his earnest apologies with a word.
“Don’t blame yourself—pray, don’t. It was very warm—and Freke—oh, how I hate him!”
Throckmorton had been afraid she was going to faint, but the energy with which she brought out herlast remark convinced him there was no danger. It brought the blood surging back to her face in a torrent.
Nobody else had known anything of the little scene in the conservatory; and then Throckmorton had to show Jacqueline over it, and Judith caught sight of him, standing in one of his easy and graceful attitudes, leaning over Jacqueline in expressive pantomime; and then came the general’s big, musical voice: “My love, it is now past eleven o’clock; we must not trespass on Throckmorton’s hospitality.” Throckmorton felt at that moment as if the evening had just begun; while to Judith it seemed as if there was a stretch of years of pain between the dawn and the midnight of that day—a pain secret but consuming.
There was the bustle of departure, during which Judith managed to say to Freke:
“You have had your revenge—perfect but complete.”
“That’s for calling me a liar,” was Freke’s reply. It was, moreover, for something that Judith had made him suffer—absurd as it was that any woman could make Temple Freke suffer. But, after what he had seen that night, he reflected that it was perhaps a work of supererogation to build a barrier between Judith and Throckmorton. The major had other views.
Throckmorton handed the ladies into the carriage; and, in spite of the light from the open hall-door, andnotfrom the carriage-lamps—for the Barn Elms carriage had long parted with its lamps—he pressed a light kiss on Jacqueline’s hand, under General and Mrs. Temple’s very eyes, without their seeing it. Judith, however, saw it, and was thankful that it was dark, so that the pallid change, which she knew came over her, was not visible.
Throckmorton went back into the house, shut himself up in his own den, and smoked savagely for an hour. Yes, it was all up with him, he ruefully acknowledged.
A day or two after this, however, came a snow, deep and lasting, more like a midwinter snow in New England than a December flurry in lower Virginia. For four weeks the sun scarcely shone, and the earth was wrapped in white. The roads were impassable, the river-steamers stopped running, and the mails were delayed for days at a time. The country people were much cut off from each other. Mrs. Temple missed four successive Sundays at church—a thing she had never done in her life before. Nobody could get to Barn Elms except the Throckmortons and Freke, but they came often in the evenings. Throckmorton saw what was before him with Jacqueline, yet held back, as engineers put down the brakes on a wild engine on a down grade—it does not, however, materially alter the result. He sometimes thought, with a sense of the grotesqueness of human affairs, how strange it was that things had not arranged themselves so that Jack had not been Jacqueline’s victim, and himself Judith’s. For Jack was undeniably fond of Jacqueline, and so far did not in the slightestdegree suspect his father’s infatuation, as Throckmorton frankly and bitterly acknowledged it to be. As for Judith, Nature leaves no true woman unarmed for suffering like hers. Even Jacqueline, who was sharp-eyed, only noticed that Judith at this time was, if anything, a little sweeter and kinder than before—even a little more gay. Little Beverley found his mother better company than usual, and more ready for a romp than ever before. The child, whom she had thought everything to her before, became now more passionately dear to her. Alone with him, she would take him in her arms and hold him close to her; she felt an actual softening of the pain at her heart when the child’s curly head rested over it. Then she would talk to him in a way the child only half understood, as he gazed at her with grave, mystified eyes, and, while laughing at his childish wonder, she would almost smother him with kisses. Judith was positively becoming merry. In her voice was a ring, in her eyes a light that was different from that calm, untroubled composure that had once marked her. Her manner to Throckmorton was perfect; the same gentle gayety, the same graceful dignity. She did not avoid him; pain wrung no such concession from Judith Temple. But Judith’s invincible cheerfulness was strangely antagonized by Jacqueline. Jacqueline, who talked to her own heart in a very primitive, open fashion, was vexed at the notion that, inorder to be mistress of Millenbeck, she would have to marry Throckmorton. How much nicer, thought Jacqueline, with great simplicity, if it were Jack who gave her those looks, those words, who had pressed that kiss upon her hand! Throckmorton was too old, and had too much sense; Jacqueline made no secret in acknowledging that mature men of sense bored and restrained her. It was very hard, she thought, disconsolately. Ever since that dinner at Millenbeck, Barn Elms had appeared shabbier and sorrier than ever before. Although Mrs. Temple continued to have five kinds of bread for breakfast, and had invited a regiment of poor relations to spend the coming summer with her, under the Virginia delusion that it costs nothing to harbor a garrison for an indefinite time, things were certainly going very badly at Barn Elms; a condition of affairs, though, to which General Temple was perfectly accustomed, and who knew no other way of paying Peter than by robbing Paul. The old carriage went all to pieces just about that time, and there was no money to buy another one. As for a new piano, that was an impossible dream; and there were two splendid new pianos at Millenbeck, and not a soul to touch them! And Jacqueline wanted a new frock, and endless other things, which were distinctly out of the question, and the only way to get them, that she could see, was to encourage Throckmorton’s attentions and be mistress of Millenbeck.All this was not lost on Freke, who, with his eyes open, began to play with Jacqueline, and like Throckmorton got his wings scorched. The girl certainly had a power of compelling love. Had Judith ever relented toward Freke, Jacqueline would have had cause for jealousy if she loved him. But, in truth, as it came to pass, Freke cast as much of a spell upon Jacqueline as she did upon him. If Freke owned Millenbeck, instead of that wretched old Wareham, that actually was not as good as Barn Elms! So Jacqueline fretted to herself.
The loneliness of those cold, snowy days was killing to Jacqueline. The long afternoons when she sat by the drawing-room fire and dreamed dreams, were almost intolerable to her. When she heard Beverley’s shouts, as Judith romped with him in the cold hall, and hid from him in the dusk until the child set up a baby cry, it was the only living cheerful noise about the house. Judith would come to her and say, “Now, Jacky, for a walk in the hall!” Jacqueline would answer fretfully:
“What do I want to walk for?”
“Because it is better than sitting still.”
Judith would take her by the waist and run her up and down the long, dusky hall. It was so cold they shivered at first, and the rattling of the great windows let icy gusts of air in upon them; and sometimes the moon would glare in at them in a ghastlyway. Presently they would hear Simon Peter bringing in wood for the night by the back way, shaking the snow off his feet, and announcing to Delilah: “I tell you what, ole ’oman, ’tis everlastin’ cole an’ gwine ter keep so, fer I seed de hosses in de stable kickin’ de lef’ hine-foots; an’ dat’s sho’ an’ suttin sign o’ freezin’.”
“You better kick dat lef’ hine-foot o’ yourn, an’ stop studyin’ ’bout de hosses, fo’ mistis come arter you! Ez long ez ole marse holler at you, you doan’ min’; but jes’ let mistis in dat sof’ voice say right fine, ‘Simon Peter!’ I lay you jes’ hop,” was Delilah’s wifely reply.
General Temple, confined to the house by the weather, drew military maps with great precision, and worked hard upon his History of Temple’s Brigade. The fact that he knew much more about the Duke of Marlborough’s campaigns, or Prince Eugene’s, or anybody’s, in fact, than he did about any he had been directly engaged in, in no wise set him back. Mrs. Temple, who thought the general a prodigy of military science, was rejoiced that he had something to divert him through the long wintry days, when Barn Elms was as completely shut in from even the little neighborhood world as if it were in the depths of a Russian forest. Jack Throckmorton, who after a while began to see that the major was certainly singed, as he expressed it to himself, did not carry outhis usual tactics of making his vicinity too hot for his father, but when he wished to see Jacqueline went over in the mornings. If the weather was tolerable, they were pretty sure to find their way to the ice-pond. Jack, carrying on his arm a little wooden chair, and putting Jacqueline in it, would push it over the ice before him as he sped along on skates. Then Jacqueline’s fresh, young laugh would ring out shrilly—then she was happy. Sometimes Judith and Throckmorton, smiling, would watch them. Jack liked Mrs. Beverley immensely, but he confided to Jacqueline that he was a little afraid of her—just as Jacqueline candidly admitted she was in awe of Major Throckmorton. Throckmorton, watching this childish boy and girl fun, would sometimes laugh inwardly and grimly at himself. How true was it, as Mrs. Sherrard had said, that Jacqueline would make a good playmate for Jack! And then he would turn to Judith, and try to persuade himself of her sweetness and truth. But love comes not by persuasion.
Jack had been giving Jacqueline glowing accounts of the sleigh-rides he had had in the Northwest. Jacqueline was crazy for a sleigh-ride, but there was no such thing as a sleigh in the county. One evening, after tea, as Jacqueline sat dolefully clasping her knees and looking in the fire, and Judith, with hands locked in her lap, was doing the same; Mrs. Temple knitting placidly by the lamp, while General Templeheld forth on certain blunders he had discovered in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand—a strange tinkling sound was heard far—far away—almost as if it were in another world! Jacqueline sat perfectly still and gazed into Judith’s eyes. Judith got up and went into the hall. A great patch of moonlight shone through the uncurtained window, and outside it was almost as light as day. The limbs and trunks of the great live-oaks looked preternaturally dark against the white earth and the blue-black, star-lit sky. Suddenly Simon Peter’s head appeared cautiously around the corner of the house, and in a minute or two he came up the back way and planted himself at Judith’s elbow.
“Gord A’mighty, Miss Judy, what dat ar’? What dem bells ringin’ fur? I ’spect de evils is ’broad. I done see two Jack-my-lanterns dis heah night.”
Judith fixed her eyes on the long, straight lane bordered with solemn cedars; she saw a dark object moving along, and heard the sharp click of horses’ shoes on the frozen snow.
“It’s somebody coming,” she said, and in a moment, she cried out joyfully:
“O Jacky, come—come! it’s a sleigh—I see Jack Throckmorton driving—Major Throckmorton is there—and there are four seats!”
Jacqueline jumped up and ran out. She had never seen a sleigh in her life, and there it was turning into the drive before the house. Jack had thereins, and the major’s two thoroughbreds were flying along at a rattling pace, and the bells were jingling loudly and merrily. Jacqueline almost danced with delight. By the time the sleigh drew up at the door, Simon Peter was there to take the reins, and Throckmorton and Jack jumped out and came up the steps. The general and Mrs. Temple were also roused to come out and meet them. As the hall-door swung open, a blast of arctic air entered. Throckmorton’s dark eyes looked black under his seal-skin cap. Jack plunged into business at once.
“Now, Mrs. Temple, you must let me take Miss Jacqueline for a spin to-night; never saw better sleighing in my life. The major’s along, and you know he is as steady as old Time”—the major at heart did not relish this—“and, if Mrs. Beverley will go, it will be awfully jolly.”
Mrs. Temple began some mild protest: it was too cold, or too late, or something; but for once Jacqueline did not hear her, and bounded off up-stairs for her wraps. Even Judith, usually so calm, was a little carried away by the prospect.
“Come, mother, Major Throckmorton and I will take care of them.”
Mrs. Temple yielded.
“I will take care of Beverley while you are gone,” she said, and Judith blushed. Was she forgetting the child?
In five minutes both of them were ready. Judith had pressed her soft cheeks to Beverley’s as she leaned over the sleeping child. Surely nobody could say she was a forgetful mother.
The sleigh was Jack’s. He had sent away and bought it, and it had arrived that evening. Jacqueline sat on the front seat with him, her face glowing with smiles on the clear, cold night, as he wrapped the fur robes around her. Throckmorton did the same for Judith. For once she had left off her widow’s veil, and for once she forgot that secret pain and determined to be happy. Jack touched up the horses, and off they flew. As for Jacqueline and himself, their pleasure was of that youthful, effervescing sort that never comes after twenty-five; but Throckmorton and Judith began to feel some of the exhilaration and excitement. Throckmorton had lately heard Mrs. Sherrard’s views about Judith’s marriage, and it had made him feel a very great pity for her.
“Where are we going?” cried Jacqueline, as they dashed along.
“Anywhere—nowhere—to Turkey Thicket!” replied Jack, lightly touching the flying horses with his whip.
“We will frighten Mrs. Sherrard to death!” said Judith, from the back seat, burying her face in her muff.
It was not a time to think about anybody else,though. The five miles to Turkey Thicket sped away like lightning. When they dashed through the gate and drew up before the house, half a dozen darkies were there gaping; and Mrs. Sherrard, with a shawl thrown over her head, was standing in the doorway, and standing behind her was Freke.
As they all got out, laughing, huddling, and slipping up the stone steps, Mrs. Sherrard greeted them with her characteristic cordiality, demanding that they should take off their wraps before they were half up the steps. She gave Throckmorton a comical look, and whispered to him as he shook hands with her: “Out with the Sister of Charity, hey? Or is it the child Jacky?” Throckmorton laughed rather uneasily. He had never got over that remark of Mrs. Sherrard’s about Jacqueline being a playmate for Jack.
They all went trooping into the dining-room, where a huge fire blazed. Mrs. Sherrard called up her factotum, a venerable negro woman, Delilah’s double, and in ten minutes they were sitting around the table laughing and eating and drinking. The colored factotum had brought out a large yellow bowl, a big, flat, blue dish, and a rusty bottle. Eggs and milk followed.
“Egg-nog,” whispered Jack to Jacqueline.
So it was. Freke broke up the eggs, and Mrs. Sherrard, with a great carving-knife, beat up the whites, while she talked and occasionally flourishedthe knife uncomfortably near Freke’s nose. Throckmorton poured in the rum and brandy with such liberality that Judith with great firmness took both bottles away from him. The egg-nog was a capital brew. Then Freke produced his violin, and saying, “Hang your Brahms and Beethovens!” dashed into waltzes of Strauss and Waldteufel that made the very air vibrate with joy and gayety and rhythm. Jack seized Jacqueline, and, opening the door, they flew out into the half-lighted hall and spun around delightedly. As Freke’s superb bow-arm flashed back and forth, and the torrent of melody poured out of the violin, his eyes flashed, too. He did not mean to play always for Jacqueline to dance.
Judith, standing at the door, watched the two young figures whirling merrily around in the half-light to the resounding waltz-music. She was altogether taken by surprise when Throckmorton came up to her, and said, half laughing and half embarrassed:
“My dancing days are over, but that waltz is charming.”
Judith did not quite take in what he meant, but without a word he clasped her waist, and she was gliding off with him. Throckmorton would have scorned the characterization of a “dancing man,” but nevertheless he danced well, and Judith moved like a breeze. She went around the big hall once—twice—beforethe idea that it was inconceivably wicked of her to dance with Throckmorton came to her; not, indeed, until she saw Freke’s wide mouth expanded into a smile that was infuriating. And then, what would Mrs. Temple say to her dancing at all?
“Oh, pray, stop!” she cried, blushing furiously. “I can’t dance any more; I ought never to have begun. I haven’t danced for—for years.”
Throckmorton stopped at once, with pity in his eyes. He suspected the sort of angelic dragooning to which she was subject from his dear Mrs. Temple.
“Why shouldn’t you dance?” he said. “I see you like it. Come, let’s try it again. I’m a little rusty, perhaps, but we got on famously just now.” But Judith would not try it again.
Freke now meant to have his innings.
“Do you know this is Twelfth-night—the night for telling fortunes?” he said, laying down his violin.—“Come, Jacky, let me take you out of doors and show you the moon and tell yours.”
“In this snow!” screamed Mrs. Sherrard; but by that time Freke had thrown a shawl over Jacqueline’s head, and had dragged her out of the room, and the hall-door banged loudly after them.
Outside, in the cold, white moonlight and the snow, Freke pointed to the moon.
“Now make your wish,” he said; “but don’t wish for Millenbeck.”
Jacqueline’s face could turn no redder than it was, but she looked at Freke, and answered on impulse, as she always did:
“Millenbeck is finer than Barn Elms—”
“Or Wareham,” responded Freke, fixing her attention with a stare out of his bold eyes. “See here, Jacqueline, I know how it is. You think you will be able to put up with Throckmorton for the sake of Millenbeck. My dear, he is old—”
“He is only forty-four,” answered Jacqueline, defiantly.
“And you are only twenty-one. You would be happier even at Wareham with me, than at Millenbeck with Throckmorton.”
“I couldn’t be happy in a five-roomed house,” quite truthfully said Jacqueline.
“Yes, you could. I could make you forget whether it had five or ten rooms.”
At this, he put two fingers under her chin, and, tilting up her rosy face, kissed her on the mouth. “Come!” cried Freke, after a little while, remembering how time was flying, which Jacqueline had evidently forgotten, and making for the steps; but Jacqueline stopped him with a scared face.
“Aren’t you married, Freke?” she asked.
“Not a bit of it,” answered Freke, stoutly. “Don’t you believe all the old women’s tales you hear about me, Jacky. I’m no more married than you are thisminute. I have been, I admit, but I slipped my head out of the noose some time ago. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” answered Jacqueline, who could believe anything, “if—if—people can really be divorced.”
They had not been gone ten minutes, when they returned, yet Freke saw a danger-signal flying in Judith’s cheeks. She did not mean to have any more of this. Mrs. Sherrard, who had become an active partisan of Freke’s, asked, as soon as they came in:
“What wish did you make, Jacky?”
Jacqueline started. She had made no wish at all.
“Freke ran me out of the house so fast,” she began complainingly, “I was perfectly out of breath.”
“And of course couldn’t make a wish,” said Jack Throckmorton, laughing.
“I wished for everything,” replied Jacqueline.
Presently they were driving home through the still, frosty night. Judith felt a complete reaction from the ghost of merriment that had possessed her in going that road before. Even Throckmorton noticed the change. She laughed and talked gayly, but her speaking eyes told another story. Throckmorton could not but smile, and yet felt sorry, too, when Jacqueline, fancying herself unheard, whispered to Judith:
“I won’t tell mamma about the waltz.”
But Jacqueline was absent-minded too. Whenthey had got home and had gone up-stairs, instead of Jacqueline following Judith to her room, as she usually did when she had anything on her mind, she went straight to her own room, and, locking the door, began to walk up and down, her hands behind her back. How strange, fascinating, overpowering was Freke, after all! Was a divorced man really a married man? Divorces were dreadful things, she had always known—but—suppose, in some other world than that about the Severn neighborhood, it should be considered a venial thing? Jacqueline became so much interested in these puzzling reflections that she unconsciously abandoned the cat-like tread which she had adopted for fear of waking her mother, and stepped out in her own brisk way up and down the big room. Mrs. Temple, hearing this, quietly opened her own chamber-door beneath. That was enough. The walk stopped as if by magic, and in ten minutes Jacqueline was in bed.
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 beheard, 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, ofesprit. 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. Nobodyknew 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 criband 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, sufferedhim 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 wholesomefun 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 Jacquelineentered, 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? Youcan 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?
Throckmorton, who was modesty and respectfulness itself in the presence of the woman he loved, was far from being nervous or diffident with her family. Next morning, having devoted all his smoking hours, which comprised the meditative part of his life, to Jacqueline, it occurred to him that he would have to tackle Mrs. Temple. That quite exhilarated and amused him. He knew well enough the Temple tradition, by which the master of the house was the nominal ruler, while the mistress was the actual ruler, and he also knew it would not be repeated at Millenbeck. He was indulgent toward women to the last degree—indulgent of their whims, their foibles, their faults and follies; but it was an indulgence, not a right. Jacqueline would find she had as much liberty as ever her mother had, but it would not be by virtue of a strong will over a weak one, but the free gift of affection. The major was not a person subject to petticoat government. In fact, he did not exactly know what it meant, and the woman did not live who could make him understand it. He rather lookedforward to a brush with Mrs. Temple. He knew that Millenbeck and all the worldly advantages of the match would not influence her one iota. The conviction of this, of her entire disinterestedness and integrity, gave him pleasure. He knew that it was he—George Throckmorton—who would be weighed by Mrs. Temple, if not by Jacqueline; this last an afterthought that came to him unpleasantly.
At breakfast, Throckmorton could not but feel a sense of triumph over Jack, who, unconscious of an impending step-mother, sat opposite his father, and talked in the free, frank way to him that Throckmorton had always encouraged. The young rascal would see, thought Throckmorton, with much satisfaction, that it was possible for a man of forty-four, with more gray hairs than black in his head, to hold his own even against a fellow as fascinating as Jack fancied himself to be. As luck would have it, Jack began to talk about the Temples.
“Major, don’t you think Mrs. Beverley a very captivating woman? By George! she looks so pretty in that little black bonnet she wears, if it wasn’t for interfering with you, sir, I would be tempted to go in and win myself.”
The boy’s impudence tickled Throckmorton. He could not but laugh in spite of himself at the idea—Jack, whom Judith treated very much as she did Beverley! But Jack evidently thought his fatherhad designs in that quarter, which misapprehension still further amused the major.
“Mrs. Beverley is indeed a charming woman,” he answered.
Jack, however, became serious. In his heart he sincerely admired and revered Judith, and his blessing was ready whenever the major informed him that she would be the future mistress of Millenbeck.
“Mrs. Beverley has more sense and sprightliness than any other woman I know. If she could be persuaded to take off those black things she wraps herself up in, and beherself—which she isn’t—I should think she would be—great fun.”
Jack knew Throckmorton well enough to see that the shot had not hit the bull’s-eye. Throckmorton was too ready to praise, discuss, and admire Judith. “What does the old fellow want, anyway?” thought Jack to himself, “if Mrs. Beverley doesn’t suit him?” So then and there he entered into a disquisition on women in general and Judith Temple in particular, which caused Throckmorton to ask sarcastically:
“May I ask where you acquired your knowledge of the sex?”
“It would be impossible to associate with you, major, without learning much about them,” answered Jack, “you are such a favorite with the ladies. You are a very handsome man, you know, sir—”
Here Throckmorton smiled.
“For your age, that is—”
The major frowned slightly.
“They all like you—even little Jacqueline.”
To save his life, Throckmorton could not prevent a flush from rising to his face, which he hated; for the emotions of forty-four are infinitely ridiculous to twenty-two. But it was just as well to have things settled then. A queer glitter, too, showing understanding, had come into Jack’s eyes.
“I may say to you,” said Throckmorton, after a little pause, “that you would do well to be guarded in your references to Miss Temple. She has promised to marry me.”
They had finished breakfast by that time, and were about to separate for the morning. Jack got up, and Throckmorton noticed his handsome young face paled a little. He had not escaped Jacqueline’s spell any more than Throckmorton and Freke; but it was not an overmastering spell, and in his heart he loved his father with a manly affection that he never thought of putting into words, but which was stronger than any other emotion. He walked up to Throckmorton and shook hands with him, laughing, but with a nervousness in his laugh, an abashed look on his face, that told the whole story to Throckmorton’s keen eye.
“I congratulate you, sir. She is a—a—beautiful girl—and—and—I hope you will be very happy.”
“I think I shall,” gravely responded Throckmorton. “I can not explain things to you that you can only learn by experience. I have not forgotten—I never can forget—your mother, who made my happiness during our short married life. I have been twenty years recovering from the pain of losing her enough to think of replacing her.”
Jack had recovered himself a little while Throckmorton was speaking. The wound was only skin-deep with him.
“And is it to be immediately?” he asked.
“As soon as I can bring it about,” replied Throckmorton; “but I have got to bring my dear, obstinate old friend Mrs. Temple round first”—here both of them laughed—“so you will see the necessity of keeping the affair absolutely quiet.”
“You had better join the church, sir,” said Jack, who was himself again. “That will be your best card to play.”
“Very likely,” responded Throckmorton, good-humoredly, “but I think I can win the game even without that.”
In the bright morning sunshine out-of-doors Throckmorton began to take heart of grace about Jacqueline. Jack did not seem to think it such an unequal match. With love and patience what might not be done with any woman? Throckmorton began to whistle jovially. He went out to the stable lot totake a look at the horses, as he did every morning. Old Tartar, that had carried him during four years’ warfare, and was now honorably retired and turned out to grass, came toward him whinnying and ready for his morning pat—all horses, dogs, and children loved Throckmorton. Tartar, who had lost an eye in the service of his country, turned his one remaining orb around so as to see Throckmorton, and rubbed his noble old head against his master’s knee. Throckmorton noticed him more than usual—his heart was more tender and pitiful to all creatures that morning.
Toward noon he went over to Barn Elms. The morning was intensely cold, though clear, and the fields and fences and hedges were still white with snow. For the first time Throckmorton noticed the extreme shabbiness of Barn Elms.
“Dear little girl,” he said, “she shall have a different home from this.”
When he reached the house he was ushered straight into the plain, old-fashioned drawing-room, and in a moment Mrs. Temple appeared, perfectly unsuspicious of what had happened or what was going to happen.
“Good-morning,” cried Throckmorton—something in his tone showing triumph and happiness, and in his dark face was a fine red color. “Mrs. Temple, I came over to make a clean breast to you this morning!”
“About what?” asked Mrs. Temple, sedately.
They were both standing up, facing each other.
“About—Jacqueline.” Throckmorton spoke her name almost reverently.
A sudden light broke in upon Mrs. Temple. She grew perfectly rigid.
“Jacqueline!” she said, in an undescribable tone.
“Yes, Jacqueline,” answered Throckmorton, coolly. “I love her—I think she loves me—and she has promised to marry me. You may depend upon it, I shall make her keep her promise.”
Mrs. Temple remained perfectly silent for two or three minutes before recovering her self-possession.
“You are forty-four years old, George Throckmorton.”
“I know it. I never lied about my age to anybody.”
“You are in the Yankee army!”
“Yes, I am,” responded Throckmorton, boldly, “and I shall stay in it.”
“And my daughter—”
“For God’s sake, Mrs. Temple, let us talk reasonably together! I am not going to take your daughter campaigning.”
“It isn’t that I mean, George Throckmorton. I mean the uniform you wear—”
“Is the best in the world! Now, my dear old friend—the best friend I ever had—I want your consent and General Temple’s—I want it very much, butit isn’t absolutely necessary. Jacqueline and I are to be married. We settled that last night.”
Mrs. Temple, with whom nobody had ever taken a bold stand before, looked perfectly aghast. Throckmorton saw his advantage, and pressed it hard.
“Have you any objection to me personally? Am I a drunkard, or a gambler, or a cad?”
“You are not,” responded Mrs. Temple, after a pause. “I think you are, on the whole, except my husband and my dead son, as much of a man—”
Throckmorton took her hand and pressed it.
“Thank you! thank you!” His gratitude spoke more in his tone than his words. “And now,” he cheerfully remarked, “that you have given your consent—”
Mrs. Temple had given no such thing. Nevertheless, within half an hour she had yielded to the inevitable. She had met a stronger will than her own, and was completely vanquished.
Jacqueline came down, and Throckmorton had a half-hour of rapture not unmixed with pain. If only his reason could be silenced, how happy he would have been! He did not see Judith; he had quite forgotten her for the time.