“You don’t believe me? Then I’ll make Throckmorton tell you himself. I can find it out from him without his suspecting it, and I’ll make him tell you how he killed your husband.”
Judith drew back and gave him a look that was equivalent to a slap in the face. Just then Mrs. Temple and Delilah went out into the hall to make fast the door.
“Well, then, if by any accident you have told me the truth, it was the fortune of war—”
“Yes, but the hand that killed your husband! Ah! do you think I don’t see it all—all—all—not only what has happened, but what is happening now?”
Judith rose slowly from her sofa, forgetting her weakness. At that moment Freke thought he had never seen her look so handsome. Her eyes, usually a soft, dark gray, were black with indignation; her cheeks burned; she looked capable of killing him where he stood. She opened her lips once or twice to speak, but no sound came. She had no words to express what she felt at that moment. Freke felt a sensation of triumph. At last he had brought this proud spirit to book; and Throckmorton—at least if she scorned himself, Freke—she was forever out of Throckmorton’s reach. There was a gulf between them now that nothing on earth could bridge over. He stood in a calm and easy attitude, his face only less expressive than Judith’s. Nobody who saw Freke then could say, as Mrs. Temple sometimes had said, “What is there so interesting in Freke’s face?” It was full of power and passion.
It seemed an age to each as they stood there, but it was really only a few moments. Mrs. Temple and Delilah came back. Judith nodded to Freke, and walked off, disdaining Delilah’s arm. She felt pride in showing him her strength and composure. She even glanced back at him, and gave him a smile from her pale lips.
“You have a spirit like a man!” he cried after her, involuntarily. Mrs. Temple thought he meant because Judith had rallied so quickly from her fainting-fit.
“Rather a spirit like a woman!” answered Judith, in a loud, clear voice, as she went up the stairs.
It was some little time before she could get rid of Mrs. Temple and Delilah. But presently the door was locked, and she was alone.
Some power beyond her will drew her steps to the window that looked toward Millenbeck. The moon had gone down, and a few clouds scurried across the pale immensity of the sky, whipped by the winds of night. There was enough of the ghastly half-light to distinguish the dark masses of the trees and even the outline of the Millenbeck house. From the window which she knew well enough belonged to Throckmorton’s own den the cheerful light still streamed. He was sitting there, reading and smoking, no doubt. She could imagine exactly how he looked. His face, when he was silent, was rather stern, which made the charm of his smile and his words more captivating by contrast. And what horror she ought to feel of this man!—for, in spite of that first involuntary protest that she did not believe Freke, the heart-breaking conviction came to her every moment that he was telling the truth. But did she feel horror and hatred of Throckmorton? Ah! no. And when she tried to think of Beverley, the feeling that he was dead; that he would trouble her no more; that he was forever gone out of her life, filled her with something that was frightfully like joy.