“But,” cried Judith, putting her hand on his arm in her eagerness, “something must be done. It must be managed so that people shall not know it, until her father and mother have decided what is to be done. It will almost kill them!”
“Yes. But if you can manage with Mrs. Steptoe—”
“I have already written to her.”
“I am no lawyer, but it seems to me that it rests with Jacqueline whether it is a marriage or not. But General and Mrs. Temple would rather see her in her grave than married to any divorced man—and to him!”
“And there is a good deal of doubt about his divorce, I believe,” added Judith.
“There is at present nothing to be done. General and Mrs. Temple will no doubt be here as soon as possible; it is hardly worth while to alarm them. Is she very ill, do you think?”
“I don’t know—Jacqueline was always delicate. And—what of him—of Freke?” continued Judith, in a trembling voice. “Is there to be no punishment for him?”
Like a woman, Judith could not look at the case in its practical light; but like a man, Throckmorton, in the midst of his horror, grief, and surprise, yet retained his balance.
“Any punishment of him would react on her—to have her name made public with his—Good God! But there is no power on earth to keep General Temple from committing some frightful folly when he knows of it.”
This was a new horror to Judith. A painful pause followed. Then Judith said: