She got up and crossed the lawn hurriedly. As she neared the house, Jenkins, the urbane, appeared, preceding a black-robed figure.
"Lady Palmer has called, my lady. She asked to see both your ladyship and Sir Anthony."
"Lady Palmer!" Judith repeated in a puzzled tone, then her face altered. How could she have forgotten? This was the widowed Lady Palmer, the Sybil Carew of Anthony's youth—free, now, while he was bound.
The slender graceful woman in black came up to her quickly. Both Judith's hands were caught. Two liquid brown eyes gazed into hers.
"You are my cousin Anthony's wife, I am sure. How—how beautiful you are! You must forgive my frankness. Anthony will tell you I am nothing if not unconventional."
Judith felt suddenly tongue-tied. She had heard much of Sybil Palmer, of her, beauty, of Anthony's mad love for her. She had heard that the breaking off of his engagement had embittered all his early manhood; she knew that the meetings between the two had since been few and far between. She knew also that her husband had written to Lady Palmer on hearing of her husband's fatal accident.
"You will give me a welcome, won't you?" the sweet pathetic voice went on wistfully. "Ah, there is Anthony." With a final lingering pressure Judith found her hands dropped, and Lady Palmer turned to Sir Anthony, who was coming across the lawn towards them, Paul perched on his shoulder.
"Sybil!" he uttered in an amazed tone. "Hoy in the world did you come here? We had no idea—"
"I know you had not." Lady Palmer's beautiful eyes grew moist; her sweet tones were reproachful. "But I was staying with the Wiltons, and I told them I must come over. I thought you would give me a welcome, Anthony, for the sake of old times."
The last words were uttered in a low voice, but they reached Judith's ears as she waited.
"Of course we have a welcome for you—of course we are delighted to see you," Sir Anthony answered, a certain breeziness in his voice that contrasted curiously with Lady Palmer's languid tones.
"Ah, things have altered since we last met," she went on with a little catch in her breath. "Then my dear husband was with me, do you remember? And it was before your marriage. Now you have your wife, your child, and I—I have lost everything."
"I was—we were so grieved to hear of your loss," Sir Anthony said with some embarrassment.
Judith, waiting, felt with a vague tinge of wonder, that Sybil Palmer was an absolute surprise to her. She scarcely realized as yet the subtle charm of the deep brown eyes, of the transparent pallor of the skin, of the pathetic curves of the lovely mouth.
"Oh, what a beautiful boy!" Lady Palmer was trying to coax the child to come to her arms.
Judith felt an unreasonable thrill of pleasure when Paul, usually so good with strangers, turned obstinately away and held out his tiny arms to his mother. "Mum, mum!"
"Ah, well! he will make friends with me later. Children always do," Lady Palmer said easily, though Judith saw that she did not look quite pleased as she turned back to Sir Anthony. "Dear old Heron's Carew! How often I have dreamt of it! The love of it is in the Carew blood." She sighed. "Dear Lady Carew, I know you will let me ask my cousin's advice, you will not grudge it to poor little me, for I am in such trouble now, Palmer made such a complicated will. You will help me, won't you, Anthony?"
"If I can, I shall be delighted," Sir Anthony said courteously, but with a certain reserve in his tone. His gaze had wandered from the eyes raised so appealingly to his, to his wife's graceful figure.
Lady Palmer's eyes followed his. "How lovely she is," she murmured. "An ideal Lady Carew, Anthony. And yet, and yet—" she broke off musingly.
"And yet?" There was a slight touch of hauteur in Sir Anthony's voice.
Lady Palmer bit her lip, and then laughed. "How absurd of me! I was trying to think—I fancied I had seen her before. I remember now, it was at Monte Carlo. We were there, Palmer and I, and there was a terrible scene. A young man was missed, he had shot himself."
"And there was somebody there who reminded you of my wife." Sir Anthony frowned as he looked at her.
Lady Palmer laughed. "Well, yes! I did see a face that reminded me of Lady Carew's. At least I thought so at first, the resemblance is not quite so striking now when I see more of Lady Carew. Do you know Monte Carlo, Lady Carew?"
"No!" But if Lady Palmer could have seen the face bent so closely over Paul's head, she would have noticed that it turned several degrees paler.
The flute-like voice trickled off into laughter. "But of course it could not have been you; I must have been mistaken, though at first I thought it was the same face."
"Of course you were," Judith said hurriedly. "Of course you were mistaken."
Chapter IX
"My lady said she expected to be home next week, but perhaps Miss Peggy might stay awhile longer with Lady Leominster. I was to be sure and write back soon and tell her how your ladyship was looking."
Judith smiled. "You must tell her that the air of Heron's Carew has quite set me up."
"I was saying so to Célestine last night," said Gregson.
"Was Célestine down here last night?" Judith enquired with a little air of surprise. "I thought she went down to the village."
"Oh, no, she didn't, my lady." Gregson's pleasant old face, that always reminded Judith of a wholesome winter apple, grew suddenly grave. "Célestine generally goes off to the Spring Copse nowadays; she just looked in on me in passing. I have said myself that I didn't believe your ladyship knew what she was doing."
Something in the old woman's tone arrested Judith's attention. "Why, what is she doing, Gregson? If she likes to walk in the Spring Copse, instead of in the village, I can't see that it matters."
"Not if she walked alone," Gregson said significantly. "I have heard say that Célestine meets a young man there, my lady—not that I have seen it myself."
"A young man!" Judith repeated slowly. "Oh, well, you know, Gregson, there is nothing very surprising in that, is there?"
"Perhaps there isn't, my lady," Gregson returned. Her expression was uncompromising. She had been the Dowager Lady Carew's confidential maid, then she retired to the nursery when Peggy was born, finally she had accompanied Lady Carew to the Dower House. She had known Judith as Peggy's governess before she became the wife of the owner of Heron's Carew, and it was no small tribute to Judith's charm of manner and natural dignity that Old Mrs. Gregson always spoke of her as a real lady and the right wife for Sir Anthony.
"I say nothing against Célestine having a young man," she said now after a pause. "As your ladyships says, that is natural enough, and when it is all open and above board, I should be the last to make any objection, but when it is meeting after dusk, and in woods and such places, why it seems to me that nothing but harm can come of it."
"Oh, well, I don't know," Judith said with a slight smile. "I fancy Célestine can take care of herself. But I will give her a hint. Good-bye, Gregson; I shall write to Miss Peggy and tell her all her pets are going on well."
Gregson curtsied. "Yes, my lady, we take good care of them, but they miss her bright face sorely, as we all do."
Judith was looking much better now. The air of Heron's Carew and its restful atmosphere had done wonders for her, though her beautiful eyes still held the shadow of a terrible dread. She made her way through the Home Wood. Already it was brilliant with the promise of early summer.
Absorbed in her own thoughts, as she reached the gate leading to the park, she did not heed a faint rustle of the undergrowth; she caught no faintest glimpse of the two men who, hidden behind the budding