Judith’s heart leapt suddenly within her. The misery of the last few days melted like a bad dream. After all, were things any different from what they had always been?
Here was Reuben, here was she, face to face—alive—together.
He came slowly forwards, his eyelids drooping, an air of almost wooden immobility on his face. The black frock-coat which he wore, and in which he had that day attended Mr. Ronaldson’s funeral, brought out the unusual sallowness of his complexion. There was a withered, yellow look about him to-night which forcibly recalled his mother.
Judith’s heart grew very soft as she watched him shaking hands with her aunt and uncle.
“He is not well,” she thought; then: “He always comes last to me.”
But even as this thought flitted across her mind Reuben was in front of her, holding out his hand.
For a moment she stared astonished at the stiff, outstretched arm, the downcast, expressionless face, taking in the exaggerated, self-conscious indifference of his whole manner, then, with lightning quickness, put her hand in his.
It was as though he had struck her.
She looked round, half-expecting a general protest against this public insult, saw the quiet, unmoved faces, and understood.
She, too, to outward appearance, was quiet and unmoved enough, as she sat there on a primrose-coloured ottoman, bending over a bit of work. But the blood was beating and surging in her ears, and her stiff, cold fingers blundered impotently with needle and thread.