CHAPTER IX.

Throckmorton made one short, sharp struggle with himself, and then yielded to Jacqueline's fascination.

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

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

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

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

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

"Come, dearest," she said to the child.

Beverley held back.

"I don't want to go with you," he said. "I want to stay and play."

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

"Come, dear little boy," she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will, so help me Heaven!" he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't mention Throckmorton and Freke in the same breath, Jacqueline! What does Freke's opinion count for--what does Freke himself? It is an insult to Throckmorton to--to--"

"But, Judith," said Jacqueline, "Freke talks better than Major Throckmorton--"

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't say that!" cried Judith, breathlessly. "Never, never say that again!"

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

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

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

"I didn't say governess," replied Jacqueline, with much dignity. "I said companion."

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

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

That was all that could be got out of her.

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