Where shall I find a white rose blowing?Out in the garden where all sweets be.But out in my garden the snow was snowingAnd never a white rose opened for me,Naught but snow and a wind were blowingAnd snowing.—Christina G. Rossetti.
Where shall I find a white rose blowing?Out in the garden where all sweets be.But out in my garden the snow was snowingAnd never a white rose opened for me,Naught but snow and a wind were blowingAnd snowing.
Where shall I find a white rose blowing?Out in the garden where all sweets be.But out in my garden the snow was snowingAnd never a white rose opened for me,Naught but snow and a wind were blowingAnd snowing.
—Christina G. Rossetti.
Notwithstanding Mildred Anstruther's inward prognostications, there came no hitch to Hilda Merton's engagement. Quentyns behaved as the best and most honorable of men. He was all that was tender and loving to Hilda, and he immediately took that position toward Mr. Merton which a son might have held. Quentyns was a good business man, and in the catastrophe which overwhelmed the Rectory, he proved himself invaluable.
On one point, however, he was very firm. His marriage with Hilda must not be delayed. No persuasive speeches on her part, no longing looks out of Judy's hungry eyes, no murmurs on the part of Aunt Marjorie, would induce him to put off the time of the wedding by a single day.
He used great tact in this matter, for Quentyns was the soul of tact, and it quite seemed to the family, and even to Hilda herself, thatshehad suggested the eighth of January as the most suitable day in the whole year for a wedding—it seemed to the whole family, and even to Hilda herself, thatshewas the one who desired to go, whereas in her heart of hearts, in that innermost heart which she scarcely ventured to probe at all just now, she would have gladly shared Aunt Marjorie's discomforts and sat by her father's side while he composed those sermons which were to teach his flock, with a sure note of truth running through them, that the blessed man is the man whom the Lord God chasteneth.
The wedding-day was fixed, and notwithstanding poverty and its attendant shadows, preparations for the great event went on merrily enough.
A check for Hilda's trousseau was sent to her by a rich aunt in India, and the pleasant excitement which even the quietest wedding always causes began to pervade the Rectory.
When the day was finally arranged, Aunt Marjorie ceased to murmur and cry. She talked a great deal now of Hilda's coming responsibilities, and spent all her leisure moments copying out receipts which she thought might be usefulto her niece in her new position as wife and housekeeper.
"You have never yet told me where you are going to live, Hilda," she said, on the New Year's Day which preceded the wedding.
"I am not quite sure myself," replied Hilda. "Jasper has seen a great many suburban houses which he does not quite like, and a great many flats which he considers absolutely perfect. He says there is no special hurry about choosing a house, for after we have returned from our wedding tour we are to stay with some of his relations in town, and during that time we can make up our minds as to what kind of home we will have."
"Very prudent of Jasper," said Aunt Marjorie. "He really is an excellent fellow—so wonderfully thoughtful for such a young man. Of course he has far too much sense to think of selecting a house for you himself. As to a flat, you will of course not dream of going into one—a house is better in all respects, more airy and more interesting."
"I should like a house best," said Hilda, "but Jasper, of course, is the one really to decide."
"Now, there you are wrong, my love.Youare undoubtedly the right person to make the final choice. I am old-fashioned in my ideas,Hilda, and I think the wife ought to be in subjection to her husband, for we have Scripture for it, but I don't believe St. Paul meant that rule to extend to domestic matters. In domestic matters the wifeoughtto have the casting vote. Be sure, my dear Hilda, you don't yield to Jasper in domestic affairs—you will rue it if you do—and be quite sure that in selecting a house you have a wide entrance-hall, a spacious staircase, and a large drawing room."
"But, Auntie, such a house will be beyond our means."
"Tut, tut, my love—the rentmaybe a few pounds more, but what of that? A large entrance-hall is really essential; and as it is easier to keep large rooms and wide staircases clean than small ones, your servants will have less to do and you will save the extra rent in that way. Now here is your great-grandmother's receipt for plum-pudding—two dozen eggs, three pounds raisins, one pound citron. Hilda, I particularly want to give you a hint about thespicefor this pudding; ah, and I must speak also about this white soup—it is simply made, and at the same time delicious—the stock from two fowls—one pint single cream—your father is particularly fond of it. Yes, Susan, what is the matter?"
"A parcel for Miss Hilda, ma'am," said the neat parlor-maid. "It has come by 'Carter Patterson'; and will you put your name here, please, Miss Hilda."
Hilda signed her name obediently, and a square wooden box was brought in. It was opened by Aunt Marjorie herself with great solemnity. Judy and Babs came and looked on, and there were great expressions of rapture when an exquisite afternoon tea-service of Crown Derby was exhibited to view.
Wedding presents were pouring in from all quarters. Hilda put this one away with the others, and calmly continued her occupation of adding up some parochial accounts for her father. She was a very careful accountant, and had the makings in her of a good business woman when she had gained a little experience.
Aunt Marjorie sat and mumbled little disjointed remarks with regard to her niece's future state and subjection. She gave her many hints as to when she was to yield to her husband and when she was to firmly uphold her own will.
Had Hilda followed out Aunt Marjorie's precepts, or even been greatly influenced by them, she and Jasper would have had a very unhappy future, but she had a gentle and respectful way of listening to the old lady without taking in agreat deal that she said. Her thoughts were divided now between Jasper and Judy. Her heart felt torn at the thought of leaving her little sister, and she had an instinctive feeling, which she had never yet put into words, that Judy and Jasper were antagonistic to each other, and, what is more, would always remain so.
Judy had seen the Crown Derby service unpacked, and then, in the sober fashion which more or less characterized all her actions of late, she left the room.
She went up to the bedroom which she and Babs shared together, and sitting down by the window, rested her chubby cheek against her hand.
Babs was kneeling down in a distant corner, pulling a doll's bedstead to pieces for the express purpose of putting it together again.
"My doll Lily has been very naughty to-day," she said, "and I am going to put her to bed. She wouldn't half say her lessons this morning, and she deserves to be well punished. What are you thinking of, Judy, and why do you pucker up your forehead? It makes you look so cross."
"Never mind about my forehead. I have a lot of things to think of just now. I can't be always laughing and talking like you."
Babs paused in the act of putting a sheet onher doll's bed to gaze at Judy with great intentness.
"You might tell me what's the matter with you," she said, after a moment of silence; "you are not a bit interesting lately; you're always thinking and always frowning, unless at night when you are sobbing."
"Oh, don't!" said Judy. "Don't you see what it is, Babs—can't you guess?—it is only a week off now."
"What's only a week off?"
"Hilda's wedding. Oh, dear; oh, dear! I wish I were dead; I do wish I were dead."
Babs did not think this remark of poor Judy's worth replying to. She gravely finished making her doll's bed, tucked Lily up comfortably, and coming over to the window, knelt down, placed her elbows on the ledge, and looked out at the snowy landscape.
"Hasn't Hilda got lots and lots of presents?" she said, after a pause.
"Yes. I don't want to see them, though."
"Everyone is giving her a present," continued Babs, in her calm voice, "even Miss Mills and the servants. Susan told me that the schoolchildren were collecting money to buy her something, and—may I tell you a 'mendous big secret, Judy?"
Judy ceased to frown, and looked at Babs with a faint dawning of interest in her eyes.
"I has got a present for her too," said Babs, beginning to dance about. "I am not going to give it till the day of the wedding. I buyed it my own self, and it'squitebeautiful. What are you going to give her, Judy?"
"Nothing. I haven't any money."
"I have half a sovereign in the Savings Bank, but I can't take it out until after I am seven. I wish I could, for I could lend it to you to give Hilda a wedding present."
"I wish you could," said Judy. "I'd like awfully to give her something. You might tell me what you have got, Babs."
"It's some darning-cotton," said Babs in a whisper. "I buyed it last week with twopence-halfpenny; you remember the day I went with Mrs. Sutton to town. She said it was a very useful thing, for Hilda will want to mend Jasper's socks, and if she hasn't darning-cotton handy maybe he'll scold her."
"He wouldn't dare to," said Judy, with a frown; "sheshan'tmend his horrid socks. Why did you get such a nasty wedding present, Babs?"
A flush of delicate color spread all over Babs' little fair face. She winked her blue eyes hardto keep back the tears which Judy's scathing remarks were bringing to the surface, and said, after a pause:
"It's not a horrid present, it's lovely; and anyhow"—her voice becoming energetic as this happy mode of revenge occurred to her—"it is better than yours, for you has got nothing at all."
"Oh, I'll have something when the day comes," replied Judy, in a would-be careless tone.
"But you hasn't any money."
"Money isn't everything. I'll manage, you'll see."
From this moment Judy's whole heart and soul were absorbed in one fierce desire to give Hilda a present which should be better and sweeter and more full of love than anybody else's.
After two or three days of anxious thought and nights of troubled dreams, she made up her mind what her present should be. It should consist of holly berries and ivy, and these holly berries and that ivy should be picked by Judy's own fingers, and should be made into a bouquet by Judy herself; and the very center of this bouquet should contain a love-note—a little twisted note, into which Judy would pour some of hersoul. It should be given to Hilda at the very last moment when she was starting for church; and though she was all in white from top to toe—all in pure white, with a bouquet of white flowers in her hand—yet she should carry Judy's bouquet, with its thorns and its crimson berries, as a token of her little sister's faithful love.
"She shall carry it to church with her," said Judy, with inward passion. "I'll make her promise beforehand, and I know she won't break her word to me. It will be a little bit of me she'll have with her, even when she is giving herself to that horrid Jasper."
The little girl quite cheered up when this idea came to her. She became helpful and pleasant once more, and allowed Babs to chatter to her about the insect world, which had now practically gone to sleep; and about the delights of the time when their chrysalides, which they had put away so carefully in the butterfly-case, should burst out into living and beautiful things.
The day before the wedding came, and the whole house was in pleasant bustle and confusion. Nearly all the presents had arrived by this time. The school children had come up to the Rectory in a body to present Hilda with a very large and gaudily decorated photographic album; the Rectory servants had given thebride-elect a cuckoo-clock; Miss Mills had blushed as she presented her with a birth-day book bound in white vellum; "Carter Patterson's" people were tired of coming up the avenue with box after box; and Aunt Marjorie was tired of counting on her fingers the names of the different friends who were sure to remember such an important event as Hilda Merton's wedding.
But for Aunt Marjorie, Hilda would have given herself to Jasper in a very quiet and unobtrusive fashion. But this idea of a wedding was such intense grief to the old lady that Hilda and Jasper, rather against their wills, abandoned it, and Hilda was content to screen her lovely face behind a white veil, and to go to church decked as a bride should.
"It is positively economical to get a proper wedding dress," said Aunt Marjorie; "you'll want it for the parties you'll go to during your first season in town, Hilda. Of course Lady Malvern, Jasper's aunt, will present you, and the dress with a little alteration will do very well to go to the Drawing Room in. I shall desire the dressmaker to make the train quite half a yard extra, on purpose."
Aunt Marjorie had her way, and was sufficiently happy in her present life to forget the dulldays which must follow, and to cease to think of the deserted house when Hilda, and wealth, and luxury, went away.
It was the evening before the wedding-day, when Babs came solemnly into the room where her sister was sitting, and presented her with her wedding gift.
"It's darning-cotton," said Babs, in her gentle, full, satisfied fashion. "Sutton said it would be useful, and that Jasper wouldn't scold you if you had it handy."
"What treason are you talking, Babs?" asked Quentyns, who was standing by Hilda's side.
He stooped down, and mounted her on his shoulder.
"Sutton says that husbands always scold their wives," said Babs.
"Nonsense, child! Sutton doesn't speak the truth. I would far rather scold myself than Hilda."
"Well, at any rate here's the cotton. I spent all my money on it except the ten shillings in the Savings Bank; and, Hilda, youwilluse it when Jasper's socks get into holes."
"Of course I will, you dear little darling," said Hilda. "I think it is a perfectly sweet present. Give it to me; I was just packing my work-basket, and in it shall go this minute. I'llthink of you every time I use a thread of this cotton, Babs."
"Babs, Miss Mills says it is quite time for you to go to bed," said Judy, who was standing at the back of Hilda's chair, softly touching her bright head from time to time with the tips of her little fingers.
Quentyns laughed when Judy spoke in her solemn voice.
"And what about Judy's time for going to bed?" he asked.
"Oh, I am much older than Babs, and Hilda said——"
"Yes, Jasper; I said Judy should have a little talk with me all by myself to-night," said Hilda, putting back her hand and drawing her little sister forward. "Here's a tiny bit of my chair for you to sit upon, Judy dearest."
"Then I'll take Babs upstairs," said Jasper. "Put your arms tightly round my neck, you quaint monkey, and I'll race up to your room with you."
"Hilda," said Judy, the moment the door had closed behind the two, "I haven't given you my present yet."
"My darling," said Hilda, "when we love as you and I love each other, presents mean nothing—nothing at all. I know you have nomoney, dearest little Judy and I think it was so sweet of you not to ask for any. Your present to me is your thoughtfulness; no gift could be sweeter."
"Hilda, may I rest my head against your shoulder?"
"Of course, darling. Now aren't we cozy?"
"We are; I feel warm now, and—and happy. I won't be able to sit like this for a long time again."
"Yes you will, for you're coming to stay with us; as soon as ever we get into our house, or our flat, or wherever we shall live, you are to come. One of the very first rooms I shall furnish will be your little bedroom, my Judy."
"And then I can sit close to you every night. But oh, Hilda,he'llbe there, he won't like it."
"Yes, he will; he'll like anything that I like. There is an old proverb that I must repeat for your benefit—'Love me, love my dog.' That means that those whom I love you ought to love."
"Ought I? Very well, I'll try to love—Jasper. Anything that you say I'll try to do. Hilda, why does loving a person give pain? I have an ache in my heart—a big ache. There now, what a horrid girl I am! I am making your eyes fill with tears. You shan't be unhappyjust when you're going to be made into a beautiful white bride. Sutton says it is unlucky for a bride to cry. You shan't cry, Hilda, you shan't—you mustn't."
"But I can't help crying, Judy, when I think that you are unhappy, and when you speak of your love to me as a pain."
"I'll never speak of it again. I'll be happy—I won't fret—no, I won't fret at all, and I won't cry even once," said the child, making a valiant effort to bring a smile to her face. "Hilda, will you promise me something very, very solemnly?"
"If it is in my power I certainly will, my pet."
"You have not got my wedding present yet, Hilda; but it is coming. Promise me——"
"What, darling?"
"Promise to take it to church with you to-morrow—I'll give it to you just before church—it will be full of me—my very heart will be in it—take it to church with you, Hilda, and hold it in your hand when you're giving yourself to Jasper—promise—promise."
"How excited you are, my dearest! If it makes you really happy to know that I shall hold something of yours in my hand when I am being married, I will certainly do so."
"Oh, it does make me happy, it does!"
But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face:He will say: "O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in,And I kneel here for thy grace!"—E. Barrett Browning.
But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face:He will say: "O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in,And I kneel here for thy grace!"
But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face:He will say: "O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in,And I kneel here for thy grace!"
—E. Barrett Browning.
There was a holly tree not far from the church with berries so red and leaves so green and shining that it was generally denuded of its beauties to decorate the most important parts of the church.
Judy knew this holly tree well. It had been much crippled in shape and color for the Christmas decorations, but one perfect branch had been left where the berries still grew in full rich clusters—this special branch had not been noticed by the gardener when he was cutting the holly for Christmas, and Judy determined that from it she would pick the crimson berries which were to constitute Hilda's wedding present.
"Barnes," she said to the old gardener theday before, "you mustn't allow anyone to touch my bough of holly."
"Well, Miss Judy, you're a queer child; what bough of holly do you mean?"
"The bough on the round tree near the church. I want it most particular badly; you won't let anyone pick it—will you, Barnes?"
"No, that I won't," said Barnes, good-naturedly; and Judy, quite satisfied and happy in her mind, ran away.
On the wedding morning, just when the day broke, she got softly, very softly out of bed. Babs was having happy dreams at the moment, for smiles were flitting across her face and her lips were moving. Judy, heavy-eyed and pale, rose from her broken slumbers and proceeded to dress herself. She must go out now to fetch her holly bough. She could dress herself nicely; and putting on a warm jacket she ran downstairs and let herself out into the foggy, frosty air. She was warmly clad as to her head and throat, but she had not considered it necessary to put on her out-door boots. The boots took a long time to lace, and as she did not expect to be absent from the house more than ten or twelve minutes, she did not think it worth while to go to this trouble.
She ran swiftly now, her heart beating with acertain pleasurable excitement. It was so nice to be able to make a beautiful, quaint wedding present out of the red berries and the glistening leaves and the little note full of love hiding away in their depths. How delighted Hilda would be by and by to open that note and to read some of Judy's innermost thoughts.
"Even though she has Jasper, she loves me," thought the child. "She will knowsomethingof what I think of her, the darling, when she has read my note."
The little letter, written on a tiny pink sheet of paper, was put away all ready in Judy's drawer; she had but to cut the bough of holly and her unique wedding present would be almost ready. She reached the tree, having to go to it through long grass heavy with hoar frost. Her stockings and feet were already very wet, but she thought nothing of this fact in her excitement. She had a small knife in her pocket which she proceeded to take out in order to cut the bough away—it grew low down and she had to pull the grass aside to look for it.
Alack, and alas! where was it, who had taken it? Had wicked, wicked Barnes been faithless? There was a torn gash on the trunk of the tree, and no long bough red with berries was anywhere to be seen.
Poor little Judy could not help uttering a cry of anguish. Hot anger against Barnes swelled up in her heart. Miss Mills was in reality the culprit. Knowing nothing of Judy's desire, she had cut the bough late the night before for some window decoration.
"I won't go back to the house until I get some holly," thought the child. She wiped away her fast-falling tears and set her sharp little wits to work. This was the most scarce time in the whole winter for holly berries, the greater number of them having been used for church and Christmas decorations; but Judy, whose keen eyes noticed Nature in all her aspects, suddenly remembered that on the borders of a lake nearly a mile away grew another holly tree—a small and unremarkable bush which might yet contain sufficient bright berries for her purpose. Without an instant's hesitation she determined to walk that mile and reach that tree. She must go quickly if she would be back before anyone noticed her. She was particularly anxious that her gift should not be seen in advance. Running, racing, and scrambling she effected her purpose, reached the tree, secured some berries and leaves, and returned to the house wet through and very tired.
Babs was rubbing her eyes and stretching herlimbs in her snug bed in the nursery when her sister came back.
"Oh, Judy, what have you been doing?" she exclaimed, sitting up and staring in round-eyed astonishment.
"Hush, Babs," said Judy, "don't speak for a moment—don't say a single word until I have locked the door."
"But you oughtn't to lock the door. Miss Mills doesn't wish it."
"I am going to disobey her."
"But you'll be punished."
"I don't care."
The key was turned in the lock, and Judy, going over to Babs' bed, exhibited her spoils.
"See," she said, "here's my wedding present."
"Did you go to fetch those holly berries this morning?" asked Babs.
"Yes, I did, and I had to go a long way for them too; that horrid, wicked old Barnes had cut away my bough, and I had to go all the way to the lake."
"Your feet do look so sloppy and wet."
"So they are, they are soaking; I forgot to put on my boots."
"Oh, won't you catch an awful cold! won't Miss Mills be angry!"
"Never mind; I'll change my stockings and shoes after I have arranged my present."
"It's such a funny wedding present," said Babs. "Do you think Hilda will like it?"
"She'll do more than like it: she'll love it. Don't talk to me any more—I'm too busy to answer you."
Babs fidgeted and mumbled to herself. Judy stood with her back to her. She used her little fingers deftly—her taste as to arrangement and color was perfect. The sharp thorns pricked her poor little fingers, but she was rather glad than otherwise to suffer in Hilda's cause. The wedding present was complete, no sign of the note could be seen in the midst of the green leaves and crimson berries. Judy unlocked the door and tumbled back into bed. Miss Mills knew nothing of her escapade, for Babs was far too stanch to betray her.
Just as Hilda in a cloud of white was stepping into the carriage to go to church that morning, a little figure, also in cloudy white with wide-open greeny-gray eyes, under which heavy dark marks were already visible, rushed up to her and thrust something into her hand.
"Your—your wedding present, Hilda," gasped Judy. The strong colors of the red and green made almost a blot upon Hilda's fairness.Her father, who was accompanying her to church, interposed.
"Stand back, my dear, stand back, Judy," he said. "Hilda, you had better leave those berries in the hall; you're surely not going to take them to church."
"Your promise, Hilda, your faithful promise," said Judy in an imploring voice.
Hilda looked at the child; she remembered her words of the night before, and holding the prickly little bunch firmly, said in a gentle voice:
"I particularly want to take Judy's present to church with me, father."
"As you like, my love, of course; but it is not at all in keeping with that lovely bouquet of hot-house white flowers sent to you by Lady Dellacœur."
"Then, if so, Lady Dellacœur's flowers shall stay at home," said Hilda. She tossed the splendid bouquet on the hall table, and with Judy's holly berries in her hand, sprang into the carriage.
"Isn't she a darling?" said Judy, turning with eyes that glowed in their happiness to Miss Mills.
"A goose, I call her," muttered Miss Mills; but Judy neither heard nor heeded her words.
The little church was nearly full of spectators,and one and all did not fail to remark Judy's wedding present. A bride in white from top to toe—a lovely bride in the tenderest bloom of youth, to carry a bouquet of strong dark green and crimson—had anything so incongruous ever been seen before? But Hilda held the flowers tightly, and Judy's hungry heart was satisfied.
"Good-by, my darling," said Hilda to her little sister a couple of hours later; "good-by, Judy; my first letter shall be to you, and I will carefully keep your dear wedding present."
"Hilda, Hilda, there's a little note inside of it, in the heart of it; you'll read it, won't you, and you won't show it to Jasper?"
"If you wish me not, I won't, dearest. How hot your lips are, Judy, and how flushed your face."
"I am just a wee bit shivery," said Judy, "but it's nothing, nothing at all. I'll promise you not to fret, Hilda. Good-by, dear, dear, darling Hilda."
"Good-by, my sweetest little treasure, good-by."
Hilda got into the carriage; her husband took his place by her side. Mildred Anstruther tossed a great shower of rice after them, MissMills and Babs hurled slippers down the avenue, Judy was nowhere to be seen.
"Hilda," said Quentyns, as they were driving to the station, "why did you have such a very funny bouquet in church? You showed me Lady Dellacœur's flowers last night. Why didn't you wear them, darling? Those harsh holly berries and leaves weren't in your usual taste."
"But you're not angry with me for carrying that little bouquet, Jasper, are you?"
"My darling, could I be angry with you for anything?"
"The little bunch of holly was Judy's wedding present," said Hilda, tears dimming her eyes; "I promised her that I would wear them. Sweet little darling, my heart aches at leaving her."
Quentyns took Hilda's hand and held it firmly within his own. He said some sympathetic words, for Hilda's slightest grief was grief to him, but in his heart he could not help murmuring:
"That tiresome, morbid child. Poor darling Hilda, I must show her very gently and gradually how terribly she is spoiling Judy."
The night is in her hairAnd giveth shade for shade,And the pale moonlight on her forehead whiteLike a spirit's hand is laid;Her lips part with a smileInstead of speakings done:I ween, she thinketh of a voice,Albeit uttering none.—Mrs. Barrett Browning.
The night is in her hairAnd giveth shade for shade,And the pale moonlight on her forehead whiteLike a spirit's hand is laid;Her lips part with a smileInstead of speakings done:I ween, she thinketh of a voice,Albeit uttering none.
The night is in her hairAnd giveth shade for shade,And the pale moonlight on her forehead whiteLike a spirit's hand is laid;Her lips part with a smileInstead of speakings done:I ween, she thinketh of a voice,Albeit uttering none.
—Mrs. Barrett Browning.
A month later Mrs. Quentyns was sitting in one of the largest hotels at Rome waiting for her husband to come in. The day was so balmy and genial that it was almost impossible for Hilda to believe that the time of year was early February. Dressed in dark-green velvet, with a creamy feather boa lying by her side, Hilda sat amidst all her unaccustomed surroundings, her eyes looking straight down the lofty room and her thoughts far away. The bride was thinking of her English home—she was an intensely happy bride—she loved her husband devotedly—she looked forward to a good and blessed life by hisside, but still (and to her credit be it spoken) she could not forget old times. In the Rectory gardens now the crocuses and snowdrops were putting out their first dark-green leaves, and showing their tender petals to the faint winter sunshine. Judy and Babs, wrapped in furs from top to toe, were taking their afternoon walk—Babs was looking in vain for insect life in the hedges, and Judy was opening her big eyes wide to see the first green bud that ventured to put out its little tip to be greeted by the winter cold. Aunt Marjorie was learning to make use of her legs, and was glowing with warmth of body and vexation of spirit. The Rector was tranquilly writing a sermon which, notwithstanding its polished diction, should yet show the workings of a new spirit which would move his congregation on Sunday.
Hilda seemed to see the whole picture—but her mind's eye rested longest on the figure of the tall, rather overgrown child, whose eyes always wore too hungry an expression for perfect happiness.
"Little darling," murmured Hilda, "how I wish I had her with me here—she'd appreciate things so wonderfully. It is the greatest treat in the world to take Judy to see a really good picture—how her eyes shine in her dear facewhen she looks at it. My sweet little Judy, Jasper does not care for me to talk much to you, but I love you with all my heart and soul; it is the one drawback to my perfect happiness that I must be parted from you."
Hilda rose as she spoke, and going over to a table on which her traveling-bag stood, opened it, pressed the spring on a certain lock, and taking out a little crumpled, stained letter, read the words written on it.
"My darling Hilda [wrote the poor little scribe], this is to say that I love you better than anyone else in the world. I'll always go on loving you best of all. Please take a thousand million kisses, and never forget Judy."P. S.—I'll pray for you every day and every night. I hope you will be very happy. I won't fret if you don't. This letter is packed with love."Judy."
"My darling Hilda [wrote the poor little scribe], this is to say that I love you better than anyone else in the world. I'll always go on loving you best of all. Please take a thousand million kisses, and never forget Judy.
"P. S.—I'll pray for you every day and every night. I hope you will be very happy. I won't fret if you don't. This letter is packed with love.
"Judy."
A step was heard along the passage; Hilda folded up the letter, slipped it back into its hiding place, and ran down the long room to meet her husband.
"Well, my darling," he exclaimed; "the English mail has just come in, and here's a budget for you."
"And a budget for you too, Jasper. What a heap of letters!"
"Yes, and one of them is from Rivers. He rather wants me in London: there's a good case coming on at the Law Courts; he says I shall be counsel for it if I'm in town. What do you say to coming back to London on Saturday, Hilda?"
"You know I shall be only too delighted; I am just pining to be home again. Do you think we could go down to the Rectory? I should so like to spend Sunday there."
"My darling, what are you thinking of? I want to be in London, not in Hampshire. Now that I have got you, sweetheart, I must neglect no chance of work."
Hilda's face turned slightly pale.
"Of course, darling," she said, looking up sweetly at her tall husband; "but where are we to go on Saturday night? You spoke of going home."
"And so we are going home, my love—or rather we are going toward home; but as we have not taken a house yet, we must spend a week with the Malverns when first we get to England. I will send a line to my aunt, and tell her to expect us on Saturday."
Hilda said nothing more. She smotheredthe ghost of a sigh, and sitting down by the wood fire, which, notwithstanding the genial weather, was acceptable enough in their lofty room, began to open her letters. The Rectory budget was of course first attended to. It contained several inclosures—one from her father, which was short and principally occupied over a review of the last new theological book he had been reading, one from Aunt Marjorie, and one from Miss Mills.
"None from Judy," said Hilda, in a voice of surprise; "she has only written to me once since we were married."
She spoke aloud, and looked up at her husband for sympathy. He was reading a letter of his own, and its contents seemed to amuse him, for he broke into a hearty laugh.
"What is it, Jasper?" asked Hilda. "What is amusing you?"
"Something Rivers has said, my love. I'll tell you presently. Capital fellow he is; if I get this brief I shall be in tremendous luck."
Hilda opened Aunt Marjorie's letter and began to read. The old lady was a somewhat rambling correspondent. Her letters were always closely written and voluminous. Hilda had to strain her young eyes to decipher all the sentences.
"I must say I dislike poverty [wrote Aunt Marjorie]; you are well out of it, Hilda. It is my private conviction that your father has absolutely forgotten that his income has jumped down in a single day from three thousand three hundred and fifty pounds a year to the three hundred and fifty without the odd thousands; he goes on just as he has always done, and is perfectly happy. Dean Sharp sent him his last book a week ago, and he has done nothing but read it and talk of it ever since—his conversation in consequence is most tiresome. I miss you awfully, my love. I never could stand theology, even when I was surrounded by comforts, and now when I have to stint the fires and suffer from cold feet, you may imagine how unpleasant it is to me. My dear Hilda, I am afraid I shall not be able to keep Miss Mills, she seems to get sillier every day; it is my private conviction that she has a love affair on, but she's as mum as possible about it. Poor Sutton cried in a most heartrending way when she left; she said when leaving, 'I'll never get another mistress like you, ma'am, for you never interfere, even to the clearing of the jellies.' I am glad she appreciates me, I didn't think she did while she was living with us. The new cook can't attempt anythingin the way of soup, so I have given it up for dinner; but your father never appears to miss it. The garden is looking horrible, so many weeds about. The Anstruthers have all gone up to London—taken a house for the season at an enormous price. How those people do squander money; may they never know what it is for it to take to itself wings!"By the way, Judy has not been well; she caught cold or something the day of your wedding, and was laid up with a nasty little feverish attack and cough. We had to send for Dr. Harvey, who said she had a chill, and was a good deal run down. She's up again now, but looks like a ghost with her big eyes. She certainly is a most peculiar child—I don't pretend to understand her. She crept into the room a minute ago, and I told her I was writing to you, and asked her if she had any message. She got pink all over just as if she were going to cry, and then said:"'Tell Hilda that I am not fretting a bit, that I am as happy as possible. Give her my dear love and heaps of kisses' (my dear Hilda, you must take them for granted, for I am not going to put crosses all over the letter)."Then she ran out of the room as if she hadnothing further to say—really a most queer child. Babs is a little treasure and the comfort of my life."Your affectionate old Aunt,"Marjorie."
"I must say I dislike poverty [wrote Aunt Marjorie]; you are well out of it, Hilda. It is my private conviction that your father has absolutely forgotten that his income has jumped down in a single day from three thousand three hundred and fifty pounds a year to the three hundred and fifty without the odd thousands; he goes on just as he has always done, and is perfectly happy. Dean Sharp sent him his last book a week ago, and he has done nothing but read it and talk of it ever since—his conversation in consequence is most tiresome. I miss you awfully, my love. I never could stand theology, even when I was surrounded by comforts, and now when I have to stint the fires and suffer from cold feet, you may imagine how unpleasant it is to me. My dear Hilda, I am afraid I shall not be able to keep Miss Mills, she seems to get sillier every day; it is my private conviction that she has a love affair on, but she's as mum as possible about it. Poor Sutton cried in a most heartrending way when she left; she said when leaving, 'I'll never get another mistress like you, ma'am, for you never interfere, even to the clearing of the jellies.' I am glad she appreciates me, I didn't think she did while she was living with us. The new cook can't attempt anythingin the way of soup, so I have given it up for dinner; but your father never appears to miss it. The garden is looking horrible, so many weeds about. The Anstruthers have all gone up to London—taken a house for the season at an enormous price. How those people do squander money; may they never know what it is for it to take to itself wings!
"By the way, Judy has not been well; she caught cold or something the day of your wedding, and was laid up with a nasty little feverish attack and cough. We had to send for Dr. Harvey, who said she had a chill, and was a good deal run down. She's up again now, but looks like a ghost with her big eyes. She certainly is a most peculiar child—I don't pretend to understand her. She crept into the room a minute ago, and I told her I was writing to you, and asked her if she had any message. She got pink all over just as if she were going to cry, and then said:
"'Tell Hilda that I am not fretting a bit, that I am as happy as possible. Give her my dear love and heaps of kisses' (my dear Hilda, you must take them for granted, for I am not going to put crosses all over the letter).
"Then she ran out of the room as if she hadnothing further to say—really a most queer child. Babs is a little treasure and the comfort of my life.
"Your affectionate old Aunt,
"Marjorie."
"Jasper!" said Hilda, in a choked sort of voice. "Jasper!"
"What is it, my darling? Why, how queer you look, your face is quite white!"
"It is about Judy; she's not well!" said Hilda. "I ought to go to her, I ought not to delay. Couldn't we catch the night mail?"
"Good gracious!" said Quentyns, alarmed by Hilda's manner. "What is wrong with the child? If it is anything infectious——"
"No, no, it is nothing of that sort; but in any case, whatever it is, I ought to go to her—I ought not to delay. May I telegraph to say we are starting at once?"
"My darling, how excitable you are! What can be wrong with the child?"
"Oh, Jasper, you don't understand—Aunt Marjorie says——Here, read this bit."
"I can't read that crabbed, crossed writing, Hilda."
"Well, I'll read it aloud to you; see where it begins—'Judy has not been well——'"
Hilda read the whole passage, a lump in her throat almost choking her voice. When she had finished, Quentyns put his arms round her and drew her to his heart.
"Why, you poor little, foolish, nervous creature," he said, "there's nothing wrong with Judy now; she was ill, but she's much better. My darling Hilda—my love, you must really not disturb yourself about a trifling mishap of this sort."
"It isn't a trifle, Jasper. Oh, I know Judy—I know how she looks and what she feels. Oh, do, do let me go back to her, darling."
"You read that letter in such a perturbed sort of voice that I can scarcely follow its meanings," said Quentyns. "Here, give it to me, and let me see for myself what it is all about. Why will old ladies write such villainous hands? Where does the passage begin, Hilda? Sit down, darling, quiet yourself. Now let me see, here it is—'Judy has not been well——'"
Hilda's hands had shaken with nervousness while she read her aunt's letter aloud, but Quentyns held the sheet of thin paper steadily. As the sentences fell from his lips, his full tones seemed to put new meaning into them—the ghostly terrors died out of Hilda's heart. When her husband laid down the sheet of paper, andturned to her with a triumphant smile, she could not help smiling back at him in return.
"There," he said, "did not I tell you there was nothing wrong with Judy now? What a little goose you are!"
"I suppose I am; and if you really, really think—if you are quite sure that she's all right——"
"Of course, I am absolutely certain; doesn't Aunt Marjorie say so? The fact is, Hilda, you make too great a fuss about that little sister of yours—I feel almost jealous of her."
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchangeAnd be all to me? Shall I never missHome-talk and blessing and the common kiss?—E. Barrett Browning.
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchangeAnd be all to me? Shall I never missHome-talk and blessing and the common kiss?
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchangeAnd be all to me? Shall I never missHome-talk and blessing and the common kiss?
—E. Barrett Browning.
In the first pleasant spring-time of that same year, Mrs. Anstruther, a very gay and fashionable-looking woman of between forty and fifty years of age, turned on a certain morning to her daughter and made a remark:
"Don't forget that we must pay some calls this afternoon, Mildred."
Mildred was standing by the window of their beautiful drawing room. The window-boxes had just been filled with lovely spring flowers; she was bending over them and with deft fingers arranging the blossoms and making certain small alterations, which had the effect of grouping the different masses of color more artistically than the gardener had done.
"Yes, mother," she said, half turning her handsome head and glancing back at her parent. "We are to make calls. I am quite agreeable."
"I wish you would take an interest, Mildred;it is so unpleasant going about with people who are only just 'quite agreeable.' Now, when I was a young girl——"
"Oh, please, mother, don't! The times have completely changed since you were young; enthusiasm has gone out of fashion. I am nothing if I am not fashionable! Of course, if calls have to be made, I shall make them. I'll put on my most becoming bonnet, and my prettiest costume, and I'll sit in the carriage by your side, and enter the houses of those friends who happen to be at home, and I'll smile and look agreeable, and people will say, 'What an amiable woman Miss Anstruther is!' I'll do the correct thing ofcourse, only I suppose it is not necessary for my heart to go pitter-patter over it. By the way, have you made out a list of the unfortunates who are to be victimized by our presence this afternoon?"
Mrs. Anstruther sighed, and gazed in some discontent at her daughter.
"It is so disagreeable not to understand people," she said. "I don't profess to understand you, Mildred. If you will give me my visiting-book I can soon tell you the places where we ought to go. And oh, by the way, should we not call on Hilda Quentyns? she has taken a house somewhere in West Kensington."
"You don't mean to tell me that the Quentyns are in town?" said Mildred, turning sharply round and gazing at her mother.
"Of course; they have been in London for some time. I met Lady Malvern yesterday, and she gave me Hilda's address. She seems to have gone to live in a very poky place. See, I have entered the name in my address-book—10, Philippa Road, West Kensington."
"Then of course we'll go to her—that will bereallynice," said Mildred with enthusiasm. "We might go to Hilda first and spend some little time with her."
"But Mrs. Milward's 'at home' begins quite early. I should not like to miss that."
"Who cares for Mrs. Milward! Look here, mother, supposeyoupay the calls and let me go and see Hilda. I have a good deal I want to talk over with her; for one thing, I want to say something about Judy."
"Poor, queer little Judy," said Mrs. Anstruther with a laugh. "What can you possibly have to say about her?"
"I don't think Judy is at all well," said Mildred. "There is such a thing as dying of heart-hunger. If ever a child suffered from that old-fashioned complaint, it is that poor mite at Little Staunton Rectory."
"My dear Mildred, you get more absurd every day. Judy lives in a most comfortable home, for notwithstanding their poverty, old Aunt Marjorie manages to keep everything going in really respectable style. The child has a loving father, a devoted aunt, a dear little sister, and an excellent governess, and you talk of her dying of heart-hunger! It is absurd."
"Nevertheless," said Mildred,—she stopped abruptly, her bright eyes looked across the room and out through the open window,—"nevertheless," she said, giving her foot an impatient tap, "I should like to see Hilda. I should like to have a long talk with her. I have heard nothing about her since her wedding, so by your leave, mother, I'll drive over to West Kensington immediately after lunch and send the victoria back for you."
Mrs. Anstruther, who was always more or less like wax in the hands of her strong-minded daughter, was obliged somewhat unwillingly to submit to this arrangement; and Mildred, charmingly dressed and looking young and lovely, was bowled rapidly away in the direction of Hilda Quentyns' humble home soon after two o'clock.
"It will be pleasant to take the poor old dear by surprise," said Mildred to herself. "Therewas a time when I felt jealous of her good fortune in having secured Jasper Quentyns, but, thank goodness, I have quite got over the assaults of the green-eyed monster now. Ah, here we are. What a queer little street!—what frightfully new and yet picturesque houses! They look like dove-cotes. I wonder if this pair of turtle-doves coo in their nest all day long."
The footman jumped down and rang the doorbell. In a moment a neatly-dressed but very young looking servant stood in the open doorway.
"Yes, Mrs. Quentyns was at home," she said, and Mildred entered Hilda's pretty house.
She went into the drawing room, and stood somewhat impatiently waiting for her hostess to appear. The little room was furnished with an eye to artistic effect, the walls were decorated with good taste. The furniture was new, as well as pretty. One beautiful photogravure from Burne Jones' "Wheel of Fortune" was hung over the mantelpiece. Hilda and Quentyns, faithfully represented by an Italian photographer, stood side by side in a little frame on one of the brackets. Mildred felt herself drawing one or two heavy sighs.
"I don't know what there is about this little room, but I like it," she murmured; "nay, more,I love it. I can fancy good people inhabiting it. I am quite certain that Love has not yet flown out of the window. I am quite sure, too, of another thing, that even if Poverty does come in at this door, Love will remain. Oh, silly Hilda, what have you to do with the 'Wheel of Fortune'? your position is assured; you dwell safely enthroned in the heart of a good man. Oh, happy Hilda!"
The door was opened, and Hilda Quentyns smiling, with roses on her cheeks and words of delighted welcome on her lips, rushed into the room.
"How sweet of you to call, Mildred," she exclaimed. "I was just wondering if you would take any notice of me."
"You dear creature," said Mildred, kissing Hilda and patting her on the shoulder. "Two hours ago I heard for the first time that you were in London. I ate my lunch and ordered the victoria, and put on my prettiest bonnet and drove over to see you as fast as ever the horses would bring me. I could not well pay my respects to Mrs. Quentyns in a shorter time."
"I am very glad to see you," said Hilda.
"How childish you look," replied Mildred, gazing at her in a rather dissatisfied way; "you have no responsibilities at all now, your Jaspertakes the weight of everything, and you live in perpetual sunshine. Is the state of bliss as blissful as we have always been led to imagine, Hilda, or are the fairy tales untrue, and does the prince only exist in one's imagination?"
"Oh, no, he is real, quite real," said Hilda. "I am as happy as it is possible for a human being to be. Jasper—but I won't talk of him—you know what I really think of him. Now let me show you my house. Isn't it a sweet little home? Wasn't it good of Jasper to come here? He wanted a flat, but when he saw that my heart was set on a little house, he took this. Don't you like our taste in furniture, Milly? Oh, Milly dear, Iamglad to see you. It is nice to look at one of the dear home-faces again."
"Come and show me your house," said Mildred; "I am going to stay a long time—all the afternoon, if possible."
"I am more than glad; you must remain to dinner. I will telegraph to Jasper to come home early."
"I don't mind if I do," said Mildred. "I have no very special engagements for this evening, and even if I had I should be disposed to break them. It is not often one gets the chance of spending an hour in a nest with two turtle-doves."
"Come, come," said Hilda, "that sounds as if you were laughing at us. Now you shall see the house, and then we'll have tea together, and you must tell me all about the old place."
The turtle-doves' nest was a very minute abode. There was only one story, and the bed-rooms in consequence were small and few.
"Aren't we delightfully economical?" said Hilda, throwing open the door of her own room. "Is not this wee chamber the perfection of snugness? and this is Jasper's dressing room, and here is such a dear little bath-room; and this is the spare-room (we have not furnished it yet, but Jasper says we can't afford to have many visitors, so I'm not making any special haste). And this is our servants'-room; I did not think when we lived at Little Staunton that two servants could fit into such a tiny closet, but these London girls seem quite to like it. Now, Mildred, come downstairs. You have looked over this thimbleful of a house, and I hope it has pleased you. Come downstairs and let us talk. I am starving for news."
"Well, my dear, begin catechising to your heart's content," said Mildred. She threw herself back into the easiest of the easy-chairs as she spoke, and toasted her feet before Hilda's cheerfulfire. "What do you want to know first, Mrs. Quentyns?"
"How long is it since you left home—when did you see them all?"
"I was at home a fortnight ago, and I spent the greater part of one afternoon at the Rectory."
"Oh, did you? Is it awfully changed?"
"No; the house isin statu quo. It looks just as handsome and stately and unconcerned as of old. Aunt Marjorie says it is full of dust, but I did not notice any. Aunt Marjorie has got quite a new wrinkle between her brows, and she complains a great deal of the young cook, but my private opinion is that that unfortunate cook is your aunt's salvation, for she gives her something else to think of besides the one perpetual grievance."
"Oh, yes, yes," said Hilda, a little impatiently, "poor dear Aunt Maggie; and what about the others? How is my father?"
"He looks thin, and his hair is decidedly silvered; but his eyes just beamed at me with kindness. He never spoke once about the change in his circumstances, and on Sunday he preached a sermon which set me crying."
"Dear Mildred, I think father's sermons werealways beautiful. How I should like to hear him once again!"
"So you will, of course, very soon; they're all expecting you down. Why don't you go?"
The faintest shadow of a cloud flitted across Hilda's face.
"Jasper is so busy," she said.
"Well, go without him. I am quite convinced you would do them a sight of good."
"Jasper does not like me to leave him," said Hilda; "we both intend to run down to the Rectory for a flying visit soon, but he is so busy just at present that he cannot fix a day. Go on, Milly, tell me about the others. What of Babs?"
"I saw her squatting down on the middle of the floor with a blind kitten just three days old in her lap. The kitten squalled frightfully, and Babs kept on calling it 'poor,prettydarling.' I thought badly of the kitten's future prospects, but well of its nurse's; she looked particularly flourishing."
"And Judy?" said Hilda, "she wasn't well a little time ago, but Aunt Marjorie has said nothing about her health lately. Has she quite, quite recovered? Did she look ill? Did you see much of her?"
"She was sitting in the ingle-nook, reading a book."
"Reading a book!" said Hilda; "but Judy does not like reading. Was the day wet when you called at the Rectory?"
"No; the sun was shining all the time."
"Why wasn't she out scampering and running all the time, and hunting for grubs?"
"She had a cough, not much, just a little hack, and Aunt Marjorie thought she had better stay indoors."
"Then she isnotquite well!"
"Aunt Marjorie says she is, and that the hack is nothing at all. By the way, Hilda, if your husband won't spare you to go down to the Rectory, why don't you have that child here on a visit? Nothing in the world would do her so much good as a sight of your face."
"Oh, I know, I know; my little Judy, my treasure! But the spare-room is not ready, and Jasper is so prudent, he won't go in debt for even a shilling's-worth. He has spent all his available money on the house furnishing, and says the spare-room must wait for a month or so. As soon as ever it is furnished, Judy is to be the first guest."
"Can't you hire a little bedstead of some sort?" said Mildred, "and put it up in that room, and send for the child. What does Judy care about furnished rooms!"
"You think she looks really ill, do you, Mildred?"
"I will be candid with you, Hilda. I did not like her look—she suffers. It is sad to read suffering in a child's eyes. When I got a peep into Judy's eyes I could see that her soul was drooping for want of nourishment. She is without that particular thing which is essential to her."
"And what is that?"
"Your love. Do send for her, Hilda. Never mind whether the spare-room is furnished or not."
Hilda sat and fidgeted with her gold chain. Her face, which had been full of smiles and dimples, was now pale with emotion, her eyes were full of trouble.
"Why are you so irresolute?" asked Mildred impatiently.
"Oh, I—I don't know. I am not quite my own mistress. I—I must think."
The servant entered the room with a letter on a little salver. Hilda took it up.
"Why, this is from Judy," she exclaimed. "Perhaps she's much better already. Do you mind my reading it, Mildred?"
"Read it, certainly. I shall like to know how the dear queer mite is getting on."
Hilda opened her letter, and, taking out a tiny pink sheet, read a few words written on it.