Stephen, standing aside, as the man came forward with his ready smile, his outstretched hand, noted how over Peggy's unconscious head Judith Carew's eyes met those of the new-comer; noted how the beautiful face had assumed a look of mask-like rigidity, in which nothing seemed alive but the great burning eyes. He saw too, in the moment, before the heavy lids drooped, the look of triumph that flashed across from Lord Chesterham.
"I hope that Lady Carew will give me a welcome to Heron's Carew, for Peggy's sake," Lord Chesterham was saying as he bent over Judith's hand.
Lady Carew's lips moved, but there was no audible answer.
"Of course she will!" Peggy said joyously. "Only she hasn't been well lately, and you have rather taken us by storm, you know, Lorrimer. I think we have startled her. Sit down, Judith, dear, you are paler than ever."
But Judith put her aside. "I am quite well, Peggy. You are forgetting Mr. Crasster."
"Oh, no, I wasn't," Peggy said with her light laugh. "I never forget Stephen. This is Stephen, Lorrimer, who is to be your very greatest friend. I have told you all about him, haven't I?"
Lord Chesterham laughed as he held out his hand. "You have indeed! I hope the friendship Miss Carew proposes meets with your approval, Mr. Crasster."
Glancing into his rival's smiling eyes, Stephen knew that his secret was his own no longer. "I hope that Peggy's friends will: always be mine," he said slowly.
"Why, of course they will be," Peggy cried.
Judith had not moved, she stood a little behind. What was it that her eyes held—repulsion, entreaty, fear? Stephen, watching her, could not make up his mind.
He looked again at Peggy's lover. Lord Chesterham was apparently at his ease. Many people would have called him handsome, but Stephen's keen gaze, accustomed to read the faces of all sorts and conditions of men, saw that the light smiling eyes were set a trifle too closely together, that there was a thickening of the lower part of the face, as well as certain lines round the mouth that spoke of an evil temper.
But he was all amiability to-day as he watched his young fiancée playing with Paul, and presently, when Judith had turned back to her tea-table, addressed a few casual remarks to Stephen.
At last Peggy got up. "I am going to take Paul back to the house."
"No! You are not to come with me, sir," with a mischievous glance at Chesterham, who had sprung forward. "I want you, Stephen, because I wish most particularly to know what you think of Lorrimer."
Chapter XII
Stephen and Peggy walked slowly across the grass towards the house, Paul nestling in Peggy's arms, the echo of her soft laughter reaching the two who were left behind.
Judith did not look after them, did not move so much as an eyelid; she sat beside the tea-table, absolutely motionless, her hands clasped together in her lap, her eyes staring straight before her.
Lord Chesterham drew up one of the chintz-covered easy chairs and sat down near her; apparently she did not even see him, she remained absolutely immobile.
Presently he leaned forward. "It is a great pleasure to meet you here, Lady Carew," he said in his pleasant well-modulated tones. "Delightful to think that one of one's friends at any rate is safely in harbour, in spite of the world's storm and stress."
Then at last Judith turned her head slowly, and looked at him. Hardened sinner though he was, the man momentarily shrank from the horror, the loathing in her eyes.
"How—how dare you!"
He laughed brazenly. "My dear Lady Carew—"
Judith was still staring at him with big frightened eyes. She shuddered as she heard the sound of his laughter. "You—you are Lord Chesterham!"
"I am Lord Chesterham," he acquiesced, still with that evil smile. "Sometimes I have thought, I have wondered whether you knew, dear Lady Carew, whether you guessed—"
"Guessed—" Judith shrank away from him with unconquerable aversion. "Great heaven! how should I guess, how should I dream that such a thing should be—that heaven should let you come here—to torture me?"
He laughed softly. "I don't know that heaven had much to do with the matter. As for torturing you—if I had had any of the intentions with which you so kindly credit me, I might have said a few words that would have materially altered your son's position. But you see—" spreading out his hands.
"Ah, Paul!" Judith's throat twitched miserably, her staring eyes were dominated, held by the wicked smiling gaze of the man opposite. "You—you devil," she said hoarsely.
He laughed again. "Ah! Now if you talk to me like that I shall forget I am being honoured by a tête-à-tête with Lady Carew. I shall fancy I am back again at the Casa Civito with Judy—"
"Hush!" Judith's voice rose almost to a shriek; she threw up her arm with a gesture of despair. "You shall not mention that name here, you shall not. I forbid you, do you hear?"
The man glanced round uneasily. It was no part of his plan that she should be tormented into self-betrayal:
"Hush! Hush!" he said imperatively. "You are foolish! If I had intended to tell your secret should I not have spoken sooner? Come, we must be friends, you and I. We shall soon be related—let me see, what shall we be? Brother and Sister-in-law, I believe that is the precise term, is it not?"
Judith raised herself. "No!" she said jerkily. "No! We shall not be related; you shall never marry Peggy! You shall never be Peggy's husband!"
Chesterham's eyes darkened; he leaned forward and looked her fully in the face.
"How do you propose to prevent me?"
For one moment Judith struggled vainly for speech, her mouth twitched painfully.
"I will go to my husband, I will tell him—"
A sneer contorted the man's sensual lips. "What will you tell him? Where we last met, for instance? I can imagine your story interesting him enormously if you do. Come, Judy, don't be a fool!" as she stared at him helplessly. "Don't you see that you can't hurt me without betraying yourself? Don't you realize that you are hopelessly in my power? That instead of threatening me, you should be begging for my mercy, for my silence? Don't you think that Sir Anthony Carew, as well as the public generally, would be intensely interested to hear the circumstances of that last meeting?"
Judith caught her breath sharply. "Why haven't you told them? Why have you kept silence?"
He did not answer for a moment; his eyes were watching her face keenly.
"Because I was sorry for you," he said slowly at last. "Because I knew, none better, what your life had been like in the past; because I could guess something of what led to that last mad act." He shrugged his shoulders. "No. Let the police blunder on; I felt in no way bound to help them. You may rely on my silence, unless you interfere with my plans. Come, is it a bargain?"
He held out his hand; Judith struck it aside.
"No! No! How can I? How can I let you marry Peggy—you?"
Chesterham's expression was not pleasant to see as he tugged at his moustache.
"I think you are forgetting one thing," he said at last, gazing towards the rosery where a glimpse of the tail of Peggy's white gown was to be caught. "I may not be good enough to be Peggy's husband—Heaven forbid that I should contradict you," a momentary softening in his voice. "But," his eyes hardening to steel again, "I put it to you, should I not be at least as suitable as a husband for her as you for a sister-in-law? Do you think you are precisely in a position to throw stones?"
Judith quivered from head to foot, her throat was parched and burning. She drank feverishly