The little cavalcade started again, the gentleman leaning back in the carriage, murmuring to himself:
"Now, I wonder which of these specimens he was."
* * * * * *
And at that moment Andrew Cutler and Judith Moore were taking farewell, for a few hours as they thought, beneath the shadows of Andrew's chestnut trees.
"Darling," he whispered, holding her gently to him, "my arms seem always aching for you when we are parted; my heart cries for you continually. Judith, dear little girl, you won't make me wait too long?"
She clung to him silently, hiding her face on his arm. A tremour shook her; after all he was a man, the dominant creature of the world. True, he trembled at her voice and touch now—but then, after?
"Andrew," she whispered, "will you be good to me?"
"Trust me, dear, and see," he whispered back.
"You know I have no one but myself," she said, putting back her head and looking at him with pale cheeks and tear-rilled eyes. "If you are cruel to me or harsh to me: if you make love a burden, not a boon, I will have no one to turn to. I—" she stopped with quivering lips.
"My own girl," he said, "trust me. I know I am rough compared to you, but I will be tender. I know my man's ways frighten you, but it shall be all my thought to make you trust me. Give me your presence always, that's all I ask—to see you, feel you near, hear you about the house, have your farewells when I go away, your welcome when I return, your encouragement in what I undertake, your sympathy in what I do. That means heaven to me, but only when you are happy in it. Dearest, you don't think I would be bad to you?"