Sir Anthony Carew led his wife, at the close of the proceedings at the police court, from the seat she had occupied between the Dowager Lady Carew and Mrs. Rankin, to their own carriage. As he took his place beside her, he saw that she was very pale, that every line in her attitude spoke of utter exhaustion. Though every impulse was bidding him to take her in his arms, tell her that he would hold her thus against all the world, the whiteness and the weariness of her seemed to forbid it.
She did not open her eyes, or move unless it were to shrink further from him into her corner, as he looked at her, and for very pity her husband forebore to speak. That day's ordeal had been terrible to her he knew, though the kindness of the magistrates and the counsel had minimized it as far as might be. Though the nature of the tie that had bound her to Stanmore had not yet become common property, he knew that it must be inevitably disclosed at the trial, and the knowledge was gall and wormwood to him.
Yet his thought now was not of his sullied pride, of the disgrace she had brought upon his name, but of her, his wife, the woman he loved, lying there before him, humbled to the very dust, her fair beauty dimmed, the very life of her seemingly quenched. His touch was very tender as the carriage stopped before the door of Heron's Carew, and he helped her up the steps and across the wide low hall into the drawing-room. A great roomy Chesterfield stood before the fire, and he placed her in it, propped her up with pillows. Then, seeing her wanness, her utter exhaustion, he went himself and brought wine and delicate sandwiches, and coaxed her to eat and drink, not resting until he had seen a fair amount swallowed and a faint tinge of colour coming back to the white cheeks and lips.
As she gave him back the glass, and lay lack in her cushions, he bent over her.
"Judith!"
The big eyes, looking almost black in the shadow, glanced up at him for one moment, then veiled themselves in their long lashes, her breath quickened. "Is it really true that you—that I am—"
He knelt down beside her, and took the weak hand, on which her wedding ring shone, in his. "It is certain, Judith. I put Shapcote on, and there can be no doubt that Cyril Stanmore"—he gulped over the name—"married an actress, one Phyllis Champion, when he was a young fellow, not one and twenty, and she was living a year ago. Therefore there can be no doubt. You are my wife—you have always been my wife!"
"Your wife!" Judith stirred restlessly and turned her face towards the sofa cushions. "Anthony, what can I say? I am not worthy—it is only for Paul's sake—and yet how can I be glad when I remember that but for this you would be free—you could begin again."
"Begin again!" Anthony had captured both the small cold hands now, he chafed them, laying them against his heart. "How should I begin again, child? What do you mean?"
Judith's head was very low now; her golden hair dropped on the cushions.
"I thought perhaps you were sorry you had married me before—" she said painfully. "When Sybil Palmer—" in answer to his questioning exclamation.
There was a moment's silence; then Judith found her arms drawn round her husband's neck. "Sybil Palmer!" he repeated, with a contemptuous laugh. "I never knew you had heard that story, Judith. Yes, I thought myself very fond of Sybil in the old days, but I know now that it was never real love at all, never for a day. And now—now, surely my wife knows that the world holds only one woman for me."
A soft ray of light was stealing over Judith's white face now, and yet it seemed too good to be true. Her arms slackened their hold.
"You will never be able to forgive me for deceiving you."
Sir Anthony drew her slight form to his breast. He laid his face against the gleaming hair. "There is no need for forgiveness between us sweetheart," he said tenderly. "But," as he felt her quick movement, "if there were—if you had done anything that in any way wronged me, don't you know that a man forgives anything—everything to—"
Judith was resting now against his broad chest, her cheek pressed against the rough cloth of his coat, her hair lying across his shoulder in glittering disorder, her soft white arms twined round his throat. She trembled as she lay there, as she heard the quiver in his strong voice.
"Yes, he forgives everything to whom, Anthony?" she questioned softly.
He stooped nearer, drew her closely to him in his strong arms, laid his lips tenderly, passionately on hers. "To the woman he loves," he whispered. "Didn't you know that Judith, my darling, my wife."
Chapter XXXII
December though it was, the air was lush and moist, there were little scuds of rain in the wind; a few belated primroses and violets were poking up their heads in the warm corners of the gardens. The old people in the village were shaking their heads and croaking. "A green Yuletide makes a full churchyard."
Dark drops from the trees in the Dower House drive dripped on Stephen Crasster's hat as he drove up to the door.
The firelight from within made a pleasant glow about his broad figure as he got out and rang the bell.
It looked bright and home-like after the dusk and the damp outside.
A glow of pleasure overspread the old butler's face as he saw the unexpected visitor, and Stephen greeted him cheerfully by name.
"We didn't know you were at Talgarth, sir."
"I only came down last night," Stephen answered, divesting himself of his coat and goggles. "Is Lady Carew at home, Jenkins?"
"Her ladyship is just walking a little way towards Heron's Carew with Mrs. Rankin, sir," the butler responded. "I expect her in every moment. Miss Carew is in the drawing-room, sir."
There was a smile in Stephen's eyes as he followed the man down the familiar passage. He had not been at Carew or Talgarth for nearly three months now, since the death of the man who had called himself Lord Chesterham.
For Ronald Lee, as the evidence most indisputably proved him to be, had not lived to answer to the law for his crimes. The gunshot wound in the leg, which had not been deemed serious at the time of his arrest, began to exhibit dangerous symptoms soon after he was taken to London to await his trial. It was whispered that the prisoner himself was accountable for this, that he had managed in some way to poison the wound. Be that as it might, he died in the beginning of the very week in which the assizes were held, and the public felt itself cheated of a sensation.
Through all the time of the trial Stephen Crasster had been a veritable tower of strength to his friends; but when the worst was over, and they had gone down to Heron's Carew, no invitations had been able to lure him there, so that his appearance this afternoon at the Dower House was absolutely unexpected.
When the drawing-room door was thrown open Stephen saw that Peggy was crouching, a forlorn-looking heap, on the hearthrug. The fire had been allowed to die down; some of the damp atmosphere outside seemed to have crept into the room.
Peggy uttered an amazed exclamation and sprang to her feet as she saw Crasster. "I did not know you were here," she said confusedly. "When did you come to Talgarth?"
"Last night at seven o'clock, to be precise," he answered, his kind eyes smiling down at her. "I meant to spend Christmas at the old place."
"Ah, yes!" Peggy said, with a little indifferent air that was new to Stephen's recollection of her. "When are the Annesley Wards coming in?"
"Not at all," Stephen answered. "That plan is off, I am thinking now of keeping Talgarth in my own hands, at any rate for a time. But you are cold—you are shivering, Peggy. Why have you let the fire out?"
"I don't know," Peggy said, looking at it vaguely. "I was thinking. It is cold!" she shivered.
"Never mind, we will soon make it burn. I am a dab hand at fires," Stephen said