Judith's soft fingers held him tightly, her strange, beautiful eyes met his. "You—you know, Anthony;" she murmured. "I love you."
Sir Anthony drew her to his breast.
Judith looked up at him, she touched his cheek with her hand. "You are ill, Anthony! You are shivering, and yet your hands and face are burning."
Sir Anthony's clasp loosened a little. "I am all right, child, but I am worried. I wish I knew what to do for the best; this engagement of Peggy's is all wrong like everything else. I feel I ought to have prevented it, and yet what can I do? Peggy and her mother, and even Stephen Crasster, are all against me."
They were standing a little farther apart now; involuntarily when he mentioned Peggy's engagement, Judith shrank from him. Anthony's eyelids twitched as he noticed her movement.
"There was never a Chesterham of them all that was any good," he said bitterly. "The Chesterham star is a sure sign of the rottenness in their blood."
"The Chesterham star!" Judith repeated, her voice curiously lowered. "I don't understand what you mean. What is the Chesterham star, Anthony?"
Anthony's grey eyes were moody now; the change in her expression had not escaped him. "A blue mark something like a star," he answered slowly. "I saw it on this fellow's arm to-night. General Wilton asked him about it."
All the happy light had faded from Judith's eyes, from her face now; she was staring at her husband, a frozen horror dawning in her gaze.
"A blue mark like a star," she repeated. "Where did you say—on the arm?"
Her husband was looking at her curiously. "Of course. All the Chesterhams have it on the right arm just above the wrist."
"Ah!" Judith drew a long fluttering breath. The light in the room was growing very dim. She could see nothing, not even Anthony's face. It could not be true—this monstrous thing that had entered her brain? The darkness was rising nearer, she swayed to one side with a hoarse sob. Sir Anthony sprang forward in time to catch her in his arms before she sank in a dead swoon to the floor.
Chapter XVII
"Ah, yes, Miss Peggy, she is a lucky girl!" Célestine said reflectively. "Milord Chesterham is a fine man—a very fine man! And he have taste too! He is not like Sir Anthony, who looks at you as if you were wood—so! Milord Chesterham, he is always polite—very."
Mr. Lennox laughed. He was leaning over the stile that gave access from the Heron's Carew footpath to the Home Wood. "But who would not be polite to you, mademoiselle?"
Célestine humped up one shoulder. "But lots of people, I assure you, monsieur. They are not all so agreeable—your compatriots."
"Are they not?" Mr. Lennox questioned. "I am sorry to hear that. But it is you that I want to be agreeable this afternoon, mademoiselle."
"Does Monsieur mean that usually I am disagreeable?"
Célestine demanded, glancing at him coquettishly.
Mr. Lennox lifted his hands in protest. "You know that I think you are all that is most charming, mademoiselle. How can you pretend to misunderstand me? But to-day I want to show you—you remember I told you I was a collector?"
"But certainly, monsieur." Célestine's black eyes watched his face.
"Well, latterly I have been getting together a few things that I think would interest you. I want to show them to you, for I know you are an expert, and it strikes me that I have a collection of fans, ancient and modern, that it would be hard to beat."
"Fans, monsieur." Célestine looked eager. "But of course I shall be delighted."
"I have got them down here," Mr. Lennox said, indicating the Carew Arms with a backward jerk of his head. "Some of them are inset with jewels, some of them are made of ivory and rare old lace, one or two are painted. One in particular, said to have belonged to Marie Antoinette, has a pretty little scene by Watteau upon it."
"A—h! How I should like to see them." Célestine's eyes were sparkling. "I love fans. Miladi has some of the most superb. She too, had a Watteau painted one, but it is lost, alas!"
"Lost! That is a pity," Mr. Lennox said quietly, though there was a gleam of interest in his large blue eyes. "Well, mademoiselle, I should like to ask you whether it beats mine, not that I can part with it even to replace Lady Carew's. How did she manage to lose it?"
Célestine held up her hands. "Ma foi, but I do not know, monsieur! Truly such carelessness would be impossible to me. Miladi had it put to wear with her magnificent gown for Lady Denborough's; then, she did not go, but she lie on the sofa and fan herself with it, that is the last I know. A day or two afterwards, when I am looking for it she tell me she has lost it."
"Nice piece of carelessness that," Mr. Lennox commented. "Mademoiselle, you will walk up to the Carew Arms with me and look at my collection? I have got a private room."
"Monsieur!" Célestine gave a slight scream. "But that would not be convenable—not at all! Even in your England a young lady cannot do that."
Mr. Lennox leaned a little farther over the gate; his tone grew more persuasive.
"You know I would not ask you to do anything I would not like my own sister to do, mademoiselle. Why should you not walk up to the Carew Arms with me? I have got a delightful little sitting-room looking upon the garden, or if you don't like to come into my room"—as Célestine emitted another little shriek—"I dare say they would let us have the bar parlour. You know Mrs. Curtis, don't you?"
"But a little," Mademoiselle answered, a trifle haughtily, shaking some dust from her skirts as she spoke.
"She has been like a mother to me," Mr. Lennox went on obtusely. "And she would get you some tea; no, not tea, coffee—real continental coffee, mademoiselle. I have taught her how to make it myself, I tell you what, mademoiselle, I dare say she would let us have it out in the garden, and I might bring my fans out and show them to you in the summer-house. The most prudish person couldn't see any harm in that, could they?"
Célestine was inclined to think they could not. After a little more coquetting she yielded the point.
The footpath to Carew village was a short cut from the Home Wood. The Carew Arms stood at the near end of the village street, a big old-fashioned hostelry, facing the village green on the one side, with its large well-stocked garden on the other. Mr. Lennox, mindful of the proprieties, did not go in by the open door under the porch, but turned instead to the garden gate. The arbour stood at the bottom of the rough lawn, and thither Lennox and Célestine made their way. Lennox busied himself carrying the chairs and table into the open.
"There now, mademoiselle, now you will be comfortable, while I go and see about the coffee," he said, as he dusted them with his handkerchief.
Célestine seated herself with a simper. She felt that after this there could not be much doubts as to Mr. Lennox's intentions as she watched him walk up the path. It was evident, too, that he was well off; the match would be a good one, and Célestine lost herself in rosy visions of the future.
Presently a smiling country maid appeared with the promised coffee, and Lennox followed, a large wooden box in his arms. "Just the cream of the collection, as it were, mademoiselle," he said, as he deposited it on the grass beside her. "I couldn't think of troubling you with the whole lot."
He did the honours of the coffee, and some small wafer-like biscuits he had imported from town, and Célestine, feeling exceedingly comfortable, sank back in