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. When they 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.

CHAPTER IX.

Without Freke’s keen perceptions, Throckmorton knew enough to doubt whether he ought to congratulate or curse himself if he won Jacqueline; and that he could win her, his own good sense told him soon enough. Jacqueline’s nature was so impressionable that a strong determination could conquer her at any time and at any thing for a season. Throckmorton, tramping about the country roads with his gun on his shoulder; having jolly bachelor parties at Millenbeck, which were confined strictly to the Severn neighborhood; in church on Sunday, half-listening to Morford’s pyrotechnics in the pulpit; smoking at unearthly hours in his own den; riding hard after the hounds—the thought of Jacqueline was never far away, and never without a suspicion of pain and dissatisfaction. He was not given to paltering with himself, and nothing could utterly blind his strong common sense—a common sense that was so imperative to be heard, so difficult to answer, so impossible to evade. It was not in him to surrender his judgment absolutely. He faced bravely the discrepancy in their ages, but he soon admitted to himself that there were other incongruities deeper and more significant than that. Nevertheless, although Reason might argue and preach, Love carried the day. Throckmorton reminded himself that miracles sometimes happened in love. He did not suffer himself to think what Jacqueline would be twenty years from then. Time is always fatal to women of her type. Even her beauty was essentially the beauty of youth. In twenty years she would be stout and florid. Here Throckmorton, in his reflections, unexpectedly went off on Judith. Hers was a beauty that would last—the beauty of expression, of esprit. Then his thoughts, with a sort of shock, reverted to Jacqueline.

As for Freke, Throckmorton did not once connect him with Jacqueline. Freke was a black sheep, and, as Throckmorton devoutly and thankfully remembered, the daughter of General and Mrs. Temple would not be likely to regard a divorced man as a single man. So, in the course of two or three weeks, Throckmorton had gone through all his phases, and had made up his mind. He could not but laugh at Mrs. Temple’s unsuspecting security. She had always regarded Jacqueline as a child, and indeed regarded her very little in any way.

This excellent woman, whose gospel was embodied in her duty to her husband and her children, had always been a singularly unjust mother; but she thought herself the most devoted mother in the world, because she regularly superintended Jacqueline’s changes of flannels, and made her take off her shoes when she got her feet wet. Both Mrs. Temple and the general were absolutely incapable of entertaining the idea that Freke was growing fond of Jacqueline; and Freke was not only astute enough to keep them in the dark, but to keep Judith, too, who fondly imagined that she herself had reduced Freke to good behavior as regarded Jacqueline. Freke’s estimate of the two young women had not changed in the least—only Jacqueline was come-at-able and Judith was not—and he loved to cross Judith and vex her, and give her pin-sticks as well as stabs in return for the frank hatred she felt for him. She had elected her own position with him—so let her keep it.

It never took Throckmorton long to act on his determinations. Jacqueline saw what was coming. He had a way of looking at her that forced her to look up and then to look down again. He said little things to her, instinct with meaning, that brought the blood to her face. He performed small services for her that were merely conventional, but which were from him to her acts of adoration. And Judith saw it all.

He did not have to wait long for an opportunity. One evening he went to Barn Elms. The general was threatened with a return of his gout, which had got better, and Mrs. Temple had imprisoned him in the “charmber,” where she mounted guard over him. Only Jacqueline and Judith, with little Beverley, who had been allowed to stay up until eight o’clock, as a great privilege, were in the drawing-room when he walked in. The boy and Throckmorton were such chums that there was no hope of getting Beverley off under a half-hour. He stood between Throckmorton’s knees, perfectly happy to be with him, asking endless questions in a subdued whisper, and frowning out of his expressive eyes when Throckmorton wanted to know when his mother intended to cut off his long, yellow curls, so that he would be a real boy. Judith, sitting in her usual place, smiling and calm, soon settled that the winged word would be spoken that night. What better chance would Throckmorton have than when she should be gone to put the child to bed? She watched the tall clock on the high mantel with a fearful sinking of the heart, that drove the color out of her face. Presently it was half-past eight.

“Come, dearest,” she said to the child.

Beverley held back.

“I don’t want to go with you,” he said. “I want to stay and play.”

This childish treason to her at that moment was a stab. She got up with a smile, and opened her arms wide, her eyes shining under her straight brows.

“Come, dear little boy,” she said.

The tone was so winning, so compelling, it went to the child’s baby heart. He ran to his mother, with wide-open arms, who caught him and held him tight, covering his yellow mop of hair with kisses. Throckmorton looked on surprised and admiring. He had never seen Judith yield to anything emotional like that; she was laughing, blushing, and almost crying, as Beverley swung round her neck. And Throckmorton thought he had never seen her look so handsome as when she ran out of the room, carrying the child, who was a sturdy fellow, in her slender arms, her face deeply flushed. Throckmorton, as he held the door open for her to pass out, gave her a meaning smile; but Judith would not look at him. Up-stairs, Beverley was soon in his little bed. Judith, sitting on the floor, with both arms crossed on the crib, held one of the child’s little warm hands in hers; the only real and comforting thing in life then seemed that childish hand.

“I will stay an hour,” she said. “Mother will be vexed”—Mrs. Temple had old-fashioned ideas about leaving girls to themselves—“but he shall be happy. I will see that he has his chance.” But, like Throckmorton himself, she feared for his happiness. Nobody knew better than she Jacqueline’s weakness. She had, indeed, a sort of childish cleverness, which was, however, of no practical good to her; but then, as Judith remembered, Throckmorton’s love could transform any woman. “Yes, I shall go through it,” she thought, still kneeling on the carpet, and pressing her face to the child’s in the crib; “Jacqueline will insist that I shall take off the mourning I wear for the man I never loved, at the wedding of the man I do love. If Throckmorton has any doubts or troubles with Jacqueline, he will certainly come to me. I will help him loyally, and he will need a friend. So far, though, from making me suffer more, the hope of befriending him is the only hope I have left in the world. I wonder how it feels to have one’s heart aching and throbbing for another woman’s husband—to be counting time by the times one sees him? For assuredly a few words spoken by a priest can not change this.” She struck her heart. “And in everything Jacqueline will be blest above me. See how poor and straitened we are, and Jacqueline’s life will be free from any care at all! However, to be loved by Throckmorton must mean to be rich and free and happy.” And then, with a sort of clear-eyed despair, she began to look into the future, and see all of Jacqueline’s and Throckmorton’s life spread out before her. “And how unworthy she is!” she almost cried out aloud. She had now risen from the crib and was gazing out of the window at Millenbeck, that was plainly visible across the white stretch of snow between the two places. “Of course, she will love him—no woman could help that—but she can’t understand him. She will not have the slightest respect for his habits, and will always be wanting him to alter them for her. She never will understand the reserves of Throckmorton’s nature. She will tease him with questions. I would not care if Jacqueline were the one to be unhappy”—for so had pain changed her toward the child that had been to her almost as her own—“but in a few years the spell will have vanished. Throckmorton will find out that she is no companion for him. There can be no real companionship for any man like Throckmorton except with a woman somewhere near his own level—least of all now, when he is no longer young.”

Then she came back and took the child out of his little bed, and held him in her arms and wept passionately over him. “At least I have you, darling; I have you!” she cried.

Down-stairs, in the drawing-room, Throckmorton made good use of his time. With very little apprenticeship, he knew how to make love so that any woman would listen to him.

He told Jacqueline that he loved her, in his own straightforward way; and Jacqueline, whose heart beat furiously, who was frightened and half rebellious, suffered him to get a few shy words from her. Throckmorton did not stoop to deny his age, but he condescended to apologize for it. In a dim and nebulous way Jacqueline understood the value of the man who thus offered his manly and unstained heart, but she felt acutely the want of common ground between them.

Throckmorton’s love-making was not at all what simple Jacqueline fancied love-making to be. He did not protest—he did not talk poetry, nor abase himself; he made no exaggerated promises, nor did he sue for her love. At the first sign of yielding, he caught her to his heart and devoured her with kisses. Yet, when Jacqueline wanted to escape from him, he let her go. He would not keep her a moment unwillingly. Jacqueline did not understand this masterful way of doing things. She fancied that a lover meant a slave, and apparently Throckmorton considered a lover meant a master.

At the end of an hour, Judith returned to the room. Throckmorton was standing alone on the hearth-rug, in a meditative attitude. In his eyes, as they sought Judith’s, was a kind of passionate, troubled joy; he doubted much, but he did not doubt his love for Jacqueline. He went forward and took Judith’s hand, who lifted her eyes, strangely bright, to his face. She was smiling, too, and a faint blush glowed in her cheeks. There were no visible signs of tears.

“I am a happy man,” said Throckmorton to her. “Jacqueline has promised to marry me.”

His words were few, but Judith understood how much was conveyed in his sparing speech.

“I am happy, too,” she returned, pressing his hand. “You deserve to be happy, and you will make—Jacqueline happy.”

As she said this, she smiled tremulously. Throckmorton was too much absorbed to notice it.

“I will, so help me Heaven!” he answered.

In all his life before, Throckmorton did not remember ever to have felt the desire of communion about his inner thoughts and feelings. Was it because he himself had changed, or that Judith had that delicate and penetrating sympathy that drew him on to speak of what he had never spoken before? Anyway, he sat down by her, and talked to her a long time—talked of all the doubts and pitfalls that had beset him; his plans that Jacqueline might be happy; his confidence that Judith would be his strongest ally with Mrs. Temple, who was by no means a person to be counted on. She might object to Throckmorton’s profession, to his being in what she continued to call the Yankee army, to his twenty-odd years’ seniority, to his not being a member of the church; as like as not this was the very rock on which Throckmorton’s ship would split. Judith, with the same heavenly smile, listened to him; she even made a little wholesome fun of him; and when he rose to go, Throckmorton felt, even at that time—and nobody could say that he was a laggard in love—that he had gained something else besides Jacqueline, in the sweet friendship of a woman like Judith. He took her little hand, and was about to raise it to his lips with tender respect, when Judith, who had stood as still as a statue, suddenly snatched her hand away and gave Throckmorton a look so strange that he fancied her attacked by a sudden prudery that was far from becoming to her or complimentary to him. She slipped past him out of the door, and he heard her light and rapid footfall as she sped up the stairs. As there was nobody left to entertain the newly accepted lover, he put on a battered blue cap, for which he had a sneaking affection, and sometimes wore under cover of night, and let himself out of the front door and went home across the snow-covered fields, in an ecstasy.

Meanwhile, Jacqueline, as soon as she had heard the bang of the hall-door after Throckmorton’s quick, soldierly step, stole out of her own room into Judith’s. In answer to her tap, Judith said, “Come in.”

Judith was seated before the old-fashioned dressing-table, her long, rich hair combed out, and was making a pretense of brushing it, but occasionally she would stop and gaze with strange eyes at her own image in the glass. She rose when Jacqueline entered, and took the girl in her arms as Jacqueline expected.

“Judith,” Jacqueline said, “I am to be married to Major Throckmorton. I wonder what Freke will say!”

Judith held her off at arm’s length, and looked down at her with eyes full of anger and disdain.

“Don’t mention Throckmorton and Freke in the same breath, Jacqueline! What does Freke’s opinion count for—what does Freke himself? It is an insult to Throckmorton to—to—”

“But, Judith,” said Jacqueline, “Freke talks better than Major Throckmorton—”

“And plays and sings better. Ah! yes. At the same time, Throckmorton’s little finger is worth more than a dozen Frekes.”

“But it troubles me about Freke. I know Major Throckmorton can manage mamma—he can do anything with her now; and mamma, of course, will manage papa; but nobody can do anything with Freke.”

“Jacqueline,” said Judith, sitting down and taking Jacqueline in her lap, and changing all at once into the sweetest sisterly persuasion, “no other man on earth must matter to you now but Throckmorton. Let me tell you what a true marriage is. It is to love one man so much that with him is everything—without him is nothing. It is to study what he likes, and to like it too. It is to make his people your people, and his God your God. I think one need not know a great deal in order to be worthy of a man—for his love makes one worthy; but one should know a great deal in order that one may be creditable to him in the eyes of the world. Think how Throckmorton’s wife should conduct herself; fancy how frightful the contrast, if she should not in some degree be like him! I tell you, Jacqueline, a woman to sustain Throckmorton’s name and credit should be no ordinary woman. If you do not love him, if you do not make him proud and happy to say, ‘This is my wife,’ you deserve the worst fate—”

One of Jacqueline’s fits of acuteness was on her. She looked hard at Judith.

“It seems to me, Judith, that you would make a much more fitting wife for him than I.”

“Don’t say that!” cried Judith, breathlessly. “Never, never say that again!”

Jacqueline, who knew well enough when to stop, suddenly halted. After a little pause, she began again:

“I know it will be dreadfully lonely at Millenbeck. Major Throckmorton loves to read, and I shall be a great interruption to his evenings. I don’t know how I shall treat Jack. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to get a companion—somebody who knows French?”

“You musn’t think of such a thing. Good heavens! a companion, with Throckmorton? You can learn more from him in one week than all the governesses in creation can teach you.”

“I didn’t say governess,” replied Jacqueline, with much dignity. “I said companion.”

Then, as Jacqueline leaned her head on Judith’s shoulder, Judith talked to her long and tenderly of the duty, the respect, the love she owed Throckmorton. Jacqueline listened attentively enough. When the little lecture was finished, Jacqueline whispered:

“I feel differently about it now. At first, I could only think of Millenbeck and a new piano, and doing just as I liked; but now, I will try—I will really try—not to vex Major Throckmorton.”

That was all that could be got out of her.

Judith went with her to her room, and did not leave it until Jacqueline was tucked in her big four-poster, with the ghastly white tester and dimity hangings. Jacqueline kissed her a dozen times before she went away. Judith, too, was loath to leave. As long as she was doing something for Jacqueline, she was doing something for Throckmorton. For was not Jacqueline Throckmorton’s now?

CHAPTER X.

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 looked forward 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 father had 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 be herself—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 to take 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, but it 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.

CHAPTER XI.

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.