Judith held her off at arm’s length, and looked down at her with eyes full of anger and disdain.
“Don’t mention Throckmorton and Freke in the same breath, Jacqueline! What does Freke’s opinion count for—what does Freke himself? It is an insult to Throckmorton to—to—”
“But, Judith,” said Jacqueline, “Freke talks better than Major Throckmorton—”
“And plays and sings better. Ah! yes. At the same time, Throckmorton’s little finger is worth more than a dozen Frekes.”
“But it troubles me about Freke. I know Major Throckmorton can manage mamma—he can do anything with her now; and mamma, of course, will manage papa; but nobody can do anything with Freke.”
“Jacqueline,” said Judith, sitting down and taking Jacqueline in her lap, and changing all at once into the sweetest sisterly persuasion, “no other man on earth must matter to you now but Throckmorton. Let me tell you what a true marriage is. It is to love one man so much that with him is everything—without him is nothing. It is to study what he likes, and to like it too. It is to make his people your people, and his God your God. I think one need not know a great deal in order to be worthy of a man—for his love makes one worthy; but one should know a great deal in order that one may be creditable to him in the eyes of the world. Think how Throckmorton’s wife should conduct herself; fancy how frightful the contrast, if she should not in some degree be like him! I tell you, Jacqueline, a woman to sustain Throckmorton’s name and credit should be no ordinary woman. If you do not love him, if you do not make him proud and happy to say, ‘This is my wife,’ you deserve the worst fate—”
One of Jacqueline’s fits of acuteness was on her. She looked hard at Judith.
“It seems to me, Judith, that you would make a much more fitting wife for him than I.”
“Don’t say that!” cried Judith, breathlessly. “Never, never say that again!”
Jacqueline, who knew well enough when to stop, suddenly halted. After a little pause, she began again: