“I had no friends but General and Mrs. Temple; he was my guardian. You know, I had neither father nor mother, brother nor sister. I felt the most acute remorse for Beverley, and the most intense pity for him, cut off as he was, and I fancied I felt the profoundest grief. One suffers in sympathy, you know, and, when I saw his mother’s pitiable sorrow, it made me feel sorry too. The world—my world—saw me a broken-hearted widow—a widow while I was almost a bride. Don’t you think any woman of feeling would have done as I did—tried to atone to the man I had mistakenly married by being true to his memory? I determined to devote my life to his father and mother; and, in some way I can’t explain, except that you know how Mrs. Temple is, I pretended that my heart was broken; but I tell you, Beverley Temple never touched my heart, either in life or death, although I did not know it then. But for—for some time the deceit has lain heavy upon me. I am tired of pretending to be what I am not. I wish for life, for love, for happiness.”
She stopped and threw herself into a chair with an abandon that Throckmorton had never seen before. Still, he did not utter a word. But Judith knew that he was keenly observing her, feeling for her, and even deeply moved by what she told him.
“So to-night the feeling was so strong upon me, I took off my widow’s cap and threw it on the floor; it was a sudden impulse, just as I was leaving my room, and I took Beverley’s picture from around my neck, and I didn’t have the courage to throw it in the fire as I wanted to; I only”—with a nervous laugh—“put it in my pocket.”
She took the picture from her dress and handed it him. Throckmorton received it mechanically, but, the instant his eyes fell upon it, his countenance changed. In a moment or two he said, in an indescribable voice:
“I know this face well; he was killed on the 14th of April. I shall never forget that face to my dying day.”
“I know all about it,” responded Judith, rising and coming toward him; “Freke told me.”
Her excitement was no longer suppressed, and Throckmorton was deeply agitated. He took Judith’s hand.
“But did he tell you all? I did not fire the shot that killed your husband; it was fired by one of his own men—probably aimed for me. I never succeeded in drawing my pistol at all. The first I knew, in those frightful moments, was when he shrieked and threw up his arms. I thought he would never breathe again.”
“But he lived some hours,” continued Judith, “and—and—I thought it was you, and I ought to have hated you for it, but I could not; I could not; and now, God is so good!”
She dropped into a chair. Throckmorton felt as if the world were coming to an end, his ideas about Judith were being so quickly and strangely transformed. He was too stupefied to speak, and for five minutes there was a dead silence between them. Then Throckmorton’s strong common sense awoke. He went to her and took her hand.