“There must be no concealments.”
His own stern composure controlled Judith’s agitation.
“All?” she asked, faintly.
“Yes—all!” he answered.
When Throckmorton used an authoritative tone with her, he could always compel her; and so, scarcely knowing how she did it, with tears and sobs, and faint deprecations for Jacqueline, she told him all. She noticed Throckmorton’s dark skin growing paler and paler; he began to gnaw his iron-gray mustache—always a sign of extreme agitation with him.
“Now, tell me this—collect your thoughts and don’t cry so—does she—does she love that—” He could not bring himself to utter Freke’s name.
Judith remained silent. Throckmorton, in his determination to make her answer, seized her arm. It hurt her so that she could have cried out, but she made no sound.
“Tell me!” he said, in a voice and manner so unlike his own gentle courtesy, that Judith could scarcely have recognized it. But Judith was obstinately silent. Nevertheless, she lifted her eyes to his with so eloquent a plea for mercy for Jacqueline, that he was unconsciously softened.
“You will not tell me!” he said, relaxing his fierce hold. “I can’t make you answer—you have a spirit like a soldier. But it makes no difference now whether she loves him or not. If she were free to-morrow, I could kill her with my own hands easier than I could marry her!—and yet—I loved her well.”