burst from Judith's tortured heart. In truth it did seem to her that the refinement of cruelty suggested by his words would be impossible even to the man before her.
His look at her, as he raised his brows, made her feel that he would stand at nothing to obtain his ends.
"I had hoped that you would spare me the trouble?" he said, in a quite unemotional voice. "But I want you to understand definitely, Lady Carew, that my silence is only conditional."
"Conditional!" Judith repeated. "What is the condition?" she questioned, with the same odd feeling that nothing mattered much; yet, though her voice was perfectly steady, her face, her lips, had faded to an absolute pallor, her eyes had a fixed ghastly stare.
"My condition is Sir Anthony Carew's free consent to my marriage with his sister," Chesterham said in his slow level voice, with its grim undertone of rigid determination.
Chapter XIV
Judith got up quickly, the scene around her was growing dimmer, the only thing, it seemed to her, was to get away, to be alone. But Chesterham rose too. He overtook her and walked beside her, his long legs keeping pace with her hurrying footsteps without difficulty.
People were gathering round the cricket ground now; Judith and Lord Chesterham made their way behind them quickly.
An old woman separated herself from the crowd, and came towards them, an old woman with a withered face that still bore traces of past comeliness, with white waving hair and big sunken eyes. She put herself directly in their path, curtsying deeply.
"Sure and your lordship hasn't forgotten old Betty Lee?"
Judith moved aside and went on quickly.
For an instant Chesterham stared at the old woman, then, as their eyes met, he smiled and held out his hand.
"Why, no! of course I have not forgotten my old friend, long as it is since we met. How has the world been using you, Betty?"
The old woman started a little as she heard his voice.
She peered forward and looked up into his face, then she curtsied again with a little cackling laugh.
"I have nothing to complain of, my lord; a little rheumatism now and then, and a cough in the winter."
"And how is my friend Ronald? You see I haven't forgotten him, either."
"No!" Again the old woman gave that cackling laugh. "No, I see you haven't, my lord. But"—her keen eyes watching the relief in the man's face—"he is dead, young Ronald is—years ago; or it is a proud man he would have been to-day, to see his old playmate come back the lord of Chesterham."
"Ronald dead!" Was it sorrow or relief in Chesterham's eyes. "Why, I had not heard. I must come up and have a crack with you over the old times, Betty. Are you living alone?"
"I have got my son Hiram with me, my lord." The old woman bent forward gazing apparently at the man's hands. "You'll remember Hiram maybe, Hiram that used to take you and Ronald out fishing? You'll have the Chesterham star, my lord?"
The sudden question seemed to take Lord Chesterham aback. He stared at her a minute without answering, then his face changed, his eyelids flickered. Without speaking he moved up his right cuff, and showed a blue mark, star-shaped, just above the wrist.
Old Betty's expression altered almost to fear as she stared at it. "Your lordship will forgive me—if I have been too free."
The man smiled with a furtive glance at her withered face, as he pulled his cuff down. "Free! Not a bit of it; I am glad you spoke to me." He gave her a smiling nod as he walked away.
Old Betty stared after him, amazed look on her wrinkled face. Her lips moved slowly. "It seems I were wrong, and yet I could ha' took my oath to it!"
The smile was still lingering in Chesterham's eyes as he strolled back to the tents.
Judith had not lost a moment when old Betty stopped them. She hurried onwards, intent only on getting away, on hiding herself from this mocking fiend of a man. She scarcely recognized Stephen Crasster as he crossed the soft turf to intercept her.
"Lady Carew, Peggy wants you to see the roses from the Dower House. She declares that they have beaten Heron's Carew. But what is the matter. You are ill," as he saw Judith's ghastly face.
Judith put out her hand. Stephen Crasster had never been wholly her friend; she had always felt that Anthony's marriage had disappointed him, that in some way he disapproved of her. But she was thankful to see him now, at any rate he would protect her from Chesterham's insolence.
"It was the heat that was too much for me, I fancy," she said incoherently.
"But Chesterham," Stephen looked bewildered.
"He went to speak to somebody, I think." Judith said vaguely. "Mr. Crasster, I must go home. I am not well enough to stay. Make my excuses for me."
Stephen turned with her. "I am exceedingly sorry. Won't you take one of the seats? And I will bring the motor round."
"No, no," Judith contradicted him feverishly. "I am going there to it, and indeed you must not leave the others. Don't let them know I have gone if you can help it."
"You must at least let me see you to the car," Stephen said gravely.
Towards six o'clock the Wembley Show was at its height. The people from the surrounding villages were pouring in, eager to see the sight, to discuss the quality of the exhibits, and to congratulate the prize-winners. The prizes were to be distributed in front of the grand stand on the sports ground at seven o'clock. It had been decided that, as Lady Carew was unfortunately indisposed, her place should be taken by her young sister-in-law, and, as the time grew near, Peggy made her way to the centre of the stand in a flutter of excitement tempered by nervousness. Her brother and mother were with her, and Stephen Crasster and Chesterham stood behind.
Lady Palmer was there, and glanced at General Wilton with a smile, but he, too, was watching Peggy, and with a little sniff of superiority, Lady Palmer leaned back in her chair.
Two ladies passed. Lady Palmer leaned forward and looked at them earnestly. She saw a pretty fair-haired girl, and with her was a slight graceful woman with silver hair. Her face seemed familiar, but for a moment Lady Palmer could not place her. A moment later, however, her face cleared, and she put out her hand.
"Mrs. May, how stupid of me not to recognize you before!" She drew her skirts aside. "Do come and sit down. Is this one of your girls?"
"No, this is a little niece who is staying with us, Sophie Rankin, Lady Palmer." Mrs. May hesitated a moment. Good vicar's wife as she was, she had thought Lady Palmer haughty, disagreeable; to-day she came to the conclusion that she had sadly misjudged her. She took the chair next to her, and sat down, Miss Rankin remained standing, biting her full underlip, her eyes misty.
Lady Palmer glanced at her. "Won't your niece sit down?" she asked sweetly. "She looks in trouble. Is there anything the matter?"
"She has had a little disappointment, poor child,"
