Poor old King Canute, with the tide by this time well above the tops of his hunting-boots, and all the familiar landmarks becoming submerged, one after the other! It may be easy to deride him, but it is hard not to pity him.
This was on Monday, and Christian returned from her week-end visit that evening. Judith stayed, and went with Christian to her room.
"Well, my dear," she began, eagerly, as the door closed, "when are you going to announce it?"
Christian sat down on her bed. She was looking very tired.
Without paying attention to Judith's exclamation she took a newspaper out of the pocket of her top-coat, and handed it to her sister.
"This is this evening's paper. I got it at the Junction. Read that." She pointed to a paragraph.
Judith read it; then she dropped the paper, and gazed at Christian with dramatic consternation.
"The idiot!" she said, at length. "Couldn't you stop him?"
"He had promised years ago. I didn't try. He couldn't break his word."
"Well, you know, this will finish him with Papa," said Judith, gloomily. "He's bad enough as it is about the sales to the tenants, and I was prepared for rows over the religious business, of course, but this! Can't you"
"I can't do anything," interrupted Christian, getting up. "I heard from him this morning, fearfully keen about it, but he didn't know then if the Party were going to adopt him. Evidently they have."
"Trust them for that!" said Judith, with a heavy groan. "I suppose Larry thinks we shall all be delighted! What fools men are! Bill did say once that it had been suggested--oh, ages ago, when Larry came of age; Ma-in-law told him--but we thought it had died out."
Christian hardly heard what she said. She was standing at the open window, in the stillness that tells of intense mental engrossment. Self-deception was impossible for her; her mind was too acute for tolerance of subterfuge; and for her, also, away and beyond the merciless findings of intellect was the besetment of presentiment, intuition, inward convictions that can override logical conclusions, words that are breathed in the soul as by a wind, and, like the wind, are born and die in mystery.
The last of the daylight had gone; there was a touch of frost; the sky was clear and hard, the stars shone with sharp brilliance, some of them had long, slanting rays on either hand that looked like wings of light; a new moon glittered among them, keen and clean, and vindictive as a scimitar; in the quiet, the low murmur of the Broadwater pervaded the night. Judith watched her sister with unconsciously appraising eyes, noting the straight slenderness of her figure, the small, high-held, dark head.