“Two—weeks,” answered Judith, falteringly.
“And then you married him, and you had hardly any honeymoon, didn’t you?”
“A very short one.”
“And Beverley went away, and never came back.”
There was a short silence. Jacqueline was nerving herself to say what had been burning upon her lips for long.
“Then—then, Judith, he was so little in your life—he was so little of your life.”
“But, Jacqueline, when one loves, it makes no difference whether it is a month or a year.”
“Yes, when one loves; but, Judith, did you love Beverley that way?”
Judith stood quite still and pale. The thought was then put in words that had haunted her. She no longer thought of answering Jacqueline, but of answering herself. Was it, indeed, because she was so young, so entirely alone in the world, and, in truth, had known so little of the man she married, that it became difficult for her to recall even his features; that she felt something like a pang of conscience when Mrs. Temple spoke his name; that this perpetual kindness to his father and his mother seemed a sort of reparation? Jacqueline, seeing the change in Judith’s face, went softly out of the room. Judith stood where Jacqueline had left her. Presently the door opened, and little Beverley came in, and made a dash for his mother. Judith seized him in her arms, and knelt down before him, and for the thousandth time tried to find a trace of his father in his face. But there was none. His eyes, his mouth, his expression, were all hers. Even the little bronze rings of hair that escaped from under her widow’s cap were faithfully reproduced on the child’s baby forehead. This strong resemblance to his mother was a thorn in Mrs. Temple’s side. She would have had the boy his father’s image. She would have had him grave and given to serious, thoughtful games, and to hanging about older people, such as her Beverley had been; but this merry youngster was always laughing when he was not crying, and was noisy and troublesome, as most healthy young animals are. Yet she adored him.