"My Dear Hilda:"I am writing you a little letter. I hope you are quite well. I don't fret, and I hope you don't. I think of you and never forget you. I give you a kiss for now and for to-night, and for every other night, and a million, thousand kisses for always."Your loving"Judy.""Here are my kisses."
"My Dear Hilda:
"I am writing you a little letter. I hope you are quite well. I don't fret, and I hope you don't. I think of you and never forget you. I give you a kiss for now and for to-night, and for every other night, and a million, thousand kisses for always.
"Your loving
"Judy."
"Here are my kisses."
A whole lot of crosses and round o's followed.
"Here is my tex for us both. 'The Lord wach between me and thee.'"Judy."
"Here is my tex for us both. 'The Lord wach between me and thee.'
"Judy."
Hilda's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"There is something else in the envelope," she exclaimed. "I think a scrawl from Aunt Marjorie. I had a volume from her yesterday. I wonder what she wants to write about again."
"My Darling Hilda:"Now don't be frightened, my dear, but I have something to tell you which I think you ought to know. Our dear little Judy fainted in a rather alarming way in church yesterday. Ofcourse we sent for the doctor, and he says she is very weak, and must stay in bed for a day or two. He says we need not be alarmed, but that her strength is a good deal run down, and that she must have been fretting about something. It just shows how little doctors know, for Ineversaw the child sweeter, or more gentle, or more easily amused. You know what a troublesome little creature she used to be, always flashing about and upsetting things, and bringing all kinds of obnoxious insects into the house; but she has been just like a lamb since your wedding, sitting contentedly by my side, looking over her fairy story-books, and assuring me she wasn't fretting in the least about you, and that she was perfectly happy. Babs did say that she heard her crying now and then at night, but I fancy the child must have been mistaken, for Judy certainly would not conceal any trouble from me. I will write to you again about her to-morrow. She directed this envelope to you herself yesterday morning before church, so I am slipping my letter into it. Don't be frightened, dear, we are taking all possible care of her."Your affectionate"Aunt Marjorie."
"My Darling Hilda:
"Now don't be frightened, my dear, but I have something to tell you which I think you ought to know. Our dear little Judy fainted in a rather alarming way in church yesterday. Ofcourse we sent for the doctor, and he says she is very weak, and must stay in bed for a day or two. He says we need not be alarmed, but that her strength is a good deal run down, and that she must have been fretting about something. It just shows how little doctors know, for Ineversaw the child sweeter, or more gentle, or more easily amused. You know what a troublesome little creature she used to be, always flashing about and upsetting things, and bringing all kinds of obnoxious insects into the house; but she has been just like a lamb since your wedding, sitting contentedly by my side, looking over her fairy story-books, and assuring me she wasn't fretting in the least about you, and that she was perfectly happy. Babs did say that she heard her crying now and then at night, but I fancy the child must have been mistaken, for Judy certainly would not conceal any trouble from me. I will write to you again about her to-morrow. She directed this envelope to you herself yesterday morning before church, so I am slipping my letter into it. Don't be frightened, dear, we are taking all possible care of her.
"Your affectionate
"Aunt Marjorie."
"There," said Hilda, looking up with a queer,terrified expression in her eyes, "I knew how it would be. I married Jasper to please myself, and I have killed Judy. Judy's heart is broken. Oh, what shall I do, Milly, what shall I do?"
"Let me read Aunt Marjorie's letter," said Mildred.
Her quick, practical eyes glanced rapidly over the old lady's illegible writing.
"I don't think you have killed her, Hilda," said Miss Anstruther then, "but she is simply fading away for want of the love which was her life. Go back to her; go back at once, and she will revive. Come, there is not a moment to be lost. I'll run out and send a telegram to Little Staunton. I'll tell them to expect you this evening. Where's an A B C? Have you got one?"
"I think there is one on the wagon in the dining room. I'll fetch it."
Hilda ran out of the room; she brought back the time-table in a moment. Her face was white; her hands shook so that she could scarcely turn the leaves.
"Let me find the place," said Mildred. "There, let me see. Oh, what a pity, you have lost the four o'clock train, and there isn't another until seven. Never mind, say you will take that one. You'll arrive at Bickley attwenty minutes to ten, and soon after ten you'll be at the Rectory. I'll run at once and send off the telegram, for the sooner Judy's heart is relieved the better."
Mildred rushed to the davenport, filled in a telegraph-form, and brought it to Hilda to read.
"There, is that right?" she exclaimed. "Put your name to it if you are satisfied."
Hilda dashed the tears, which were still blinding her eyes, away.
"Yes, yes," she exclaimed, "that will do. Take it at once, this moment, before—before I have time to change my mind."
Mildred had written, "Tell Judy to expect me at ten to-night." Hilda added her name, and Mildred prepared to leave the room.
"Good-by, Hilda," she said. "I won't come back, for you will need all your time to pack, and to leave things in order for your Jasper. Good-by, dear. Of course, you could notthinkof changing your mind, it would be wicked, cruel; yes, it would be terribly cruel. Good-by, Hilda, good-by."
Mildred seated herself in the victoria and desired her coachman to drive to the nearest telegraph-office.
"I have made a discovery," she said, under her breath. "Jasper Quentyns was not theprince; no,myprince has not yet shown his shining face above the horizon. Doubtless he will never come; but better that than to think he has arrived and wake to find him common clay. Hilda is absolutelyafraidof her husband. No, Hilda, I would not be in your shoes for a good deal."
The days are clear,Day after day,When April's here,That leads to May,And JuneMust follow soon.Stay, June, stay!If only we could stop the moonAnd June!
The days are clear,Day after day,When April's here,That leads to May,And JuneMust follow soon.Stay, June, stay!If only we could stop the moonAnd June!
The days are clear,Day after day,When April's here,That leads to May,And JuneMust follow soon.Stay, June, stay!If only we could stop the moonAnd June!
It was an April day, but the weather was still cold at Little Staunton, and Aunt Marjorie thought it well to have a nice bright fire burning in Judy's bedroom.
Judy was sitting up in bed, her hair was combed back from her face, she wore a pink dressing-gown, the black shadows under her eyes were not so marked as yesterday, her firm little lips had an expression of extreme and touching patience. Judy's movements were somewhat languid, and her voice when she spoke had lost its high, glad pitch.
Aunt Marjorie kept coming in and out of the room. Miss Mills fussed with the fire, went tothe window to look out over the landscape and to make the same remark many times.
"How late the spring is this year," said the governess, in her dreary monotone.
Babs stood with her back to Judy, sorting a cabinet full of curiosities. There was no shadow of any sorrow on Babs' serene face—her full contented voice prattled on interminably.
A drawing-board lay on Judy's bed, a sheet of drawing-paper, two or three pencils, and a thick piece of india-rubber lay by her side. For over an hour she had been drawing industriously. A pink color came into her cheeks as she worked, and Aunt Marjorie said to herself:
"The child is all right—she just needed a little rest—she'll soon be as well as possible. I'll go downstairs now, and write to Hilda about her."
Miss Mills also thought that Judy looked better. Miss Mills was still guilty of keeping up a somewhat one-sided correspondence with the person whom she so cordially hated—she had not heard from him for nearly a month, and thought that the present would be a good opportunity to write another letter to remind him of her existence. So, glancing at Judy as she went, she also left the room.
The door was shut carefully, and the two little sisters were alone. When this happened, Judythrew down her pencils and gave utterance to a faint, quickly-smothered sigh.
"Why do you do it so softly?" said Babs, not troubling herself to turn her face, but still keeping her stout back to her sister.
"Do what so softly?" asked Judy.
"Those groans to yourself. Aunt Marjorie won't believe that you ever groan, and Iknowyou do. She said you was as happy as the day is long, and I said youwasn't. You know you do sob at night, or you have she-cups or something."
"Look here," said Judy, "it's very, very,veryunkind of you, Babs, to tell Aunt Marjorie what I do at night. I didn't think you'd be so awfully mean. I am ill now, and Aunt Maggie would do anything for me, and I'll ask her to put you to sleep in Miss Mills' room, if ever you tell what I do at night again."
"I'll never tell if you don't wish me to," said Babs, in her easy tones. "You may sob so that you may be heard down in the drawing room and I won't tell. Look here, Judy, I have found your old knife."
"What old knife?"
"The one you saved that animal with last autumn, don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes, yes—thedearlittle earwig. Dolet me see the knife, Babs; I thought I had lost it."
"No, it was in the back of your cabinet, just under all the peacock's feathers. Wasn't the earwig glad when you saved her?"
"Yes," said Judy, smiling, "didn't she run home fast to her family? She was sticking in the wood and couldn't get out, poor darling, but my dear little knife cut the wood away and then she ran home. Oh, didn't she go fast!"
"Yes, didn't she?" said Babs, laughing. "I think earwigs are suchsweetlittle animals, don't you, Judy?"
"Insects, you mean," said Judy. "Oh, yes, I love them special because most people hate the poor dears."
"What are you drawing, Judy? What a queer, queer picture!"
"I'm going to call it 'Where the nasty fairies live,'" said Judy, "but I haven't finished it. Babs, how long is it since Hilda went away?"
"Weeks, and weeks, and weeks," replied Babs. "I has almost forgotten how long."
"Years and years, you mean," said Judy.
The little pink flush of excitement faded out of her cheeks, her eyes looked hollow, the shadow under them grew darker than ever.
There came a rush along the passage, andAunt Marjorie, puffing with the haste she had used, but trying to walk slowly and to speak calmly, entered the room.
"Judy, my darling," she said, "I have very good news for you."
"For me," said Judy, flushing and paling almost in the same moment.
"Yes, my dear little pet, very nice news. Your darling Hilda is coming."
"Aunt Maggie!"
"Yes, here's a telegram from her. She says in it, 'Tell Judy to expect me at ten to-night.' Why, my darling, how white you are! Babs, run and fetch me those smelling-salts. Now, Judy, just one whiff. Ah, now you're better."
"Yes, auntie, much, much,muchbetter. I am only awfully happy."
Judy smiled, and the tears rushed to her eyes; her little thin hand trembled, she tried to push her drawing materials away.
"Please may I have the telegram?" she asked.
"Of course you may, my darling. Oh, and here comes kind Miss Mills with your chicken-broth. Just the thing to set you up. Drink it off, dear. Miss Mills, our sweet Hilda is coming to-night. I have just had a telegram, she'll be here about ten."
"Who's to meet her?" asked Miss Mills."You forget that there are no horses in the stables now, and no carriage in the coach-house."
"I did forget," said Aunt Marjorie. "I must send a message to Stephens to take a fly to the station."
"I'll go and tell him as soon as ever tea is over," answered Miss Mills. "Ah, Judy! You'll soon be well now, Judy, won't you?"
"I am well already," said Judy. "What delicious chicken-broth! Auntie dear, stoop down, I want to whisper something to you."
"Yes, my dearie, what is it?"
"I needn't be asleep when Hilda comes, need I? You will let me sit up in bed, won't you? I'll promise to be so quiet, I won't make a sound to disturb Babs, but I should love to be awake and waiting for darling Hilda. Please, please, auntie, say I may."
"My darling—until ten o'clock! so awfully late. Judy dear, you're getting quite feverish—you must calm yourself, my pet. Well, then, well,anythingto soothe you. We'll see how you keep, dearie. If you don't get at all excited, I—I'll see what I shall do. Now I must leave you, darling, to go and get Hilda's room ready. I wonder if Jasper is coming with her, she doesn't say anything about him."
Aunt Marjorie trotted out of the room, Miss Mills started on her walk to the village, and Judy began to speak eagerly to Babs.
"I am quite well," she said; "you'll never hear me sob again at night. I am quite the happiest girl in the world. Oh, think of kissing Hilda again; and I didn't fret, no, I didn't—not really. Babs, don't you think you might make the room look pretty? You might get out all the animals and put them on the chimney-piece."
"I'll be very glad to do that," replied Babs. "I often wanted to look at the darlings, but it was no fun when you didn't wish to play with them." She opened a little box as she spoke, and taking out china dogs, cats, cocks and hens, ducks, giraffes, elephants, monkeys, and many other varieties of the animal world, bestowed them with what taste she could manage on the mantelpiece. "Don't they look sweet!" she exclaimed. "I suppose you're not strong enough to have a game, Judy? If you could bray like the donkey, I'd be the roaring bull."
"To-morrow, perhaps, I can," said Judy, in a weak voice; "but the room is not half ready yet. I want you to pin some of my drawings and some of my texes on the wall. You'll find them in my own box if you open it."
"Yes, yes," said Babs in delight. "I do like making the room pretty for Hilda, and you ordering me. You may purtend if you like that I am your little servant."
"Very well; you're putting that picture upside down, Babs."
"Oh, how funny! Is that right?"
"No, it's awfully crooked."
For the next half-hour Babs labored hard, and Judy superintended, giving sharp criticisms and ordering the arrangements of the chamber with much peremptoriness.
"Now we must have flowers," she exclaimed. "You must go out to the garden, and pick all the violets you can get."
"But it's very late to go out," said Babs, "and Miss Mills will be angry."
"As if that mattered! Who cares who is angry when Hilda is coming? The worst Miss Mills can do is to punish you, and you won't mind that when you think about Hilda. I know where there are violets, white and blue, on that south bank after you pass the shrubbery; you know the bank where the bees burrow, and where we catch ladybirds in the summer; run, Babs, do run at once and pick all you can find."
Judy's room was decorated to perfection. Judy herself lay in her white bed, with pink roseson her cheeks, and eyes like two faintly shining stars, and smiles coming and going on her lips, and eager words dropping now and then from her impatient little tongue.
"What is the hour now, Aunt Marjorie? Is it really only half-past nine?"
"It is five-and-twenty to ten, Judy, and Miss Mills has gone in the fly to the station, and your Hilda will be back, if the train is punctual, by ten o'clock. How wonderfully well you look, my darling. I did right after all to let you sit up in bed to wait for your dear sister."
"Yes, I am quite well, only—I hope Jasper won't come too."
"Oh, fie! my pet. You know you ought not to say that treasonable sort of thing—Jasper is Jasper, one of the family, and we must welcome him as such—but between ourselves, just for no one else to hear in all the wide world, I do hope also that our dear little Hilda will come here by herself."
Judy threw her thin arms round Aunt Marjorie's neck and gave her a silent hug.
"I'll never breathe what you said," she whispered back in her emphatic voice.
Babs slept peacefully in her cot at the other end of the room. The white and blue violets lay in a tiny bowl on the little table by Judy'sbed. The rumble of wheels was heard in the avenue. Aunt Marjorie started to her feet, and the color flew from Judy's face.
"It cannot be Hilda yet," exclaimed the aunt. "No, of course, it is the doctor. He will say that you are better to-night, Judy."
The medical man entered the room, felt the pulse of his little patient, looked into her eyes, and gave utterance to a few cheerful words.
"The child is much better, isn't she?" asked Aunt Marjorie, following him out of the room.
"Hum! I am not so sure; her pulse is weak and quick, and for some reason she is extremely excited. What is she sitting up in bed for? she ought to have been in the land of dreams a long time ago."
"Don't you know, Dr. Harvey; didn't we tell you, my niece, Mrs. Quentyns, is expected to-night? and Judy is sitting up to see her."
"Suspense is very bad for my little patient. What time is Mrs. Quentyns expected to arrive?"
"About ten. Judy is especially attached to her sister, and if I had insisted on her trying to go to sleep, she would have tossed about and worked herself into a fever."
"She is very nearly in one now, and I don't particularly like the look of excitement in hereyes. I hope Mrs. Quentyns will be punctual. As soon as ever she comes, the child must settle to sleep. Give her a dose of that bromide mixture immediately after. I'll come and see her the first thing in the morning."
But she is far awayNow; nor the hours of night, grown hoar,Bring, yet to me, long gazing, from the door,The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray,And rose-cream of the hour that leads the day,When we shall meet once more.—D. G. Rossetti.
But she is far awayNow; nor the hours of night, grown hoar,Bring, yet to me, long gazing, from the door,The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray,And rose-cream of the hour that leads the day,When we shall meet once more.
But she is far awayNow; nor the hours of night, grown hoar,Bring, yet to me, long gazing, from the door,The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray,And rose-cream of the hour that leads the day,When we shall meet once more.
—D. G. Rossetti.
Hilda Quentyns, Judy's idol, was not the strongest of characters. She was very sweet and amiable, intensely true and affectionate to those to whom she gave her heart, but she was somewhat timorous and somewhat easily led.
Long ago, when Babs was a baby, Hilda's mother had died. Since then Judy had been her special care.
Now with trembling hands she packed her portmanteau, gave the young cook and parlor-maid directions what to do in her absence, and then sitting down before her davenport, prepared to write an explanatory letter to her husband.
She thought it quite probable that Jasperwould be angry with her for rushing off like this, but for once she intended to brave his displeasure.
In her heart of hearts she knew exactly the state Judy was in. The ardent soul was wearing out the delicate little frame. That suffering which Judy would not speak of, which she was too brave to show sign or whisper of, was making her body ill. If Hilda went to her darling, the suffering would cease. Love would shine all round Judy's starved heart, and she would soon be well and strong again.
"Yes, it is my manifest duty to go to her," whispered the wife to herself. "I will go to Little Staunton and nurse her for a few days, and when she is better she must come to London and live with me. Jasper won't like it—I know he won't like it, but he has really nothing to complain of, for I told him from the very first what Judy was to me. Yes, I must go, but I wish—I do wish that the train for Little Staunton left Waterloo at six instead of seven. I should be well on my journey before Jasper came back. Oh, Jasper, my darling, why do I say words of this sort, as if I were—as if I could be—afraid of you!"
Hilda dipped her pen into the ink and wrote the first words of her letter.
"My Dearest Husband:"When you read this you will be surprised—"A rather crooked dash of her pen finished this sentence—she was startled by a quick double knock at the front door. A moment later Susan, the neat maidservant, brought in a telegram on a salver."The boy is waiting to know if there is any answer," she said.Hilda tore open the yellow envelope; her eyes rested on the following words:"Rivers will dine with us. Have everything nice, and expect me home at 6.30."Jasper."
"My Dearest Husband:
"When you read this you will be surprised—"
A rather crooked dash of her pen finished this sentence—she was startled by a quick double knock at the front door. A moment later Susan, the neat maidservant, brought in a telegram on a salver.
"The boy is waiting to know if there is any answer," she said.
Hilda tore open the yellow envelope; her eyes rested on the following words:
"Rivers will dine with us. Have everything nice, and expect me home at 6.30.
"Jasper."
Mrs. Quentyns' first sensation was one of relief.
"It is all right," she exclaimed, looking up at the servant, who was startled at her mistress's pale cheeks. "I thought my little sister, Miss Judy, was worse, but the telegram is from your master, Susan. Tell the boy there is no answer, and send cook to me without a moment's delay."
Susan left the room, and Hilda slipped the telegram into her pocket. She still felt only a sense of relief, and the first faint qualms as towhat Jasper would think of her sudden departure had not begun to visit her. A knock was heard at the drawing-room door.
"Come in, come in," said the young mistress. "Oh, cook," exclaimed Hilda, "I have just had a telegram from your master. He is bringing a gentleman home to dine. A rather particular gentleman, and we want a specially nice dinner. I—I forget what I ordered this morning."
The fat cook bestowed a pitying glance upon Hilda.
"The boiled chicken was to be fricasseed, mum," she said, "and you ordered me to open one of the tins of oxtail soup; there were to be apple fritters afterward, and a cheese savory—that is all."
"Yes, yes," said Hilda, putting her hand to her head, "that dinner would have done very well for Mr. Quentyns and me, but we must make some alterations now. You had better run round to the fishmonger's, cook, and go to the butcher's, and order——"
Hilda rushed to her davenport, scribbled some hasty directions on a piece of paper, and handed them to the servant.
"You must go this moment," she said, "it is six o'clock now; and please call at the green-grocer's on your way back, and get a pound ofbananas and some Tangerine oranges. I will see that the wine is all right, and speak to Susan about the table while you are out. Run, cook, run, at once—things must look theirverybest, and be served in the best possible manner for dinner to-night."
The cook muttered something unintelligible, and by no means too well pleased with her errand, departed.
Hilda called Susan, and going into the dining room helped her to decorate the table; then after impressing upon the neat little parlor-maid the necessity of doing what she could to help cook in this sudden emergency, she ran upstairs to put on her bonnet and jacket, for the time had almost arrived when she must start on her journey. She had just come downstairs when the click of the latch-key was heard, and Jasper, in excellent spirits, entered the house.
"Well, my love," he said, going up to his wife and kissing her; "oh, you have been out!—did you get my telegram? I told Rivers we should not dine until half-past seven, in order to give you plenty of time to prepare. Perhaps you have been ordering some things for dinner, Hilda; that is right, and just what I should have expected of you. I am particularly anxious that Rivers should see that I have got the sweetest,prettiest, and best little wife and housekeeper in the world."
For some reason which she could not explain, even to herself, Hilda felt her tongue tied. She returned her husband's kiss, and when he entered the tiny dining room she followed him.
"Very nice, very nice," he exclaimed, looking with approval at the dinner-table, which was charmingly decorated with pink Liberty silk and white flowers. "But what is this?" he added suddenly, "there are only two places laid. One for you and one for me. We must ring for Susan at once—I think Rivers would rather sit at the side, away from the fire."
"I—Jasper, I want to tell you something."
"What is it? how pale you are, darling!"
"I want to tell you something," repeated Hilda; "I—I am not going to dine with you to-night."
"What do you mean, my dear girl—are you ill? what can be the matter?"
"I am not ill, but Judy is—I am going down to Little Staunton. I have telegraphed to them to expect me by the train due at 9.40, and it is time for me to go. Is that you, Susan? Please would you order a hansom at once?"
Susan instantly left the room, closing the door behind her.
For nearly half a minute Quentyns was silent, a great wave of color had rushed over his face, and it was with difficulty he could keep back some annoyed and some sarcastic words. He was a man who prided himself on having great self-control, and before he uttered his first sentence he felt that he had recovered it.
"You're trembling, dear," he said gently, "and you—you absolutely look as if you wereafraidof me. Come into the drawing room, love, and tell me what is wrong with Judy. Mybête noire, Judy! what has been her last transgression?"
"Jasper, don't, don't," said Hilda, in a voice of pain. "Judy is really ill this time—she fainted in church on Sunday; she is in bed now, and the doctor says she is very weak."
"I suppose so, or she would not have fainted. I used constantly to faint when I was a child—the slightest thing sent me off. I was not kept in bed afterward, for children were not cockered up and fussed over when I was young. My faint was generally traced to over-eating. If you must go down to see Judy, I don't wish to prevent you, Hilda, but why go to-night?"
"Oh, Jasper, I must—I must run away this instant too, for I hear the cab—I telegraphed to say I would go."
Jasper put on a new stubborn look which Hilda had never seen before.
"I don't wish to coerce you," he said, in a cold voice, "you're perfectly free to act as you think right in the matter. I can go down with you by an early train in the morning, or you can go by yourself now, and put me to extreme inconvenience. You're at liberty to choose."
"Don't speak like that, Jasper, you pain me so dreadfully."
"I fail to see how I am paining you, I am giving you a free choice. You can be with Judy before noon to-morrow, or you can go immediately."
"I sent a telegram to her to expect me; it is so bad for sick children to be kept waiting."
"So it seems. Yes, Susan, tell the cab to wait."
Susan left the room, and heavy tears gathered in Hilda's eyes.
"Can I send another telegram?" she asked weakly.
"I don't believe you can, the telegraph office will be closed at Little Staunton. Never mind, Hilda, you had better go; I am disappointed, annoyed, of course, but what of that? What is a husband to a sick sister? Go, my dear, or you will miss your train!"
"No, I won't go," said Hilda; "you have made it impossible for me to go. I'll stay and entertain your guest, and Judy will suffer. Yes; don't kiss me just now, Jasper; I think you are cruel, but I'll stay."
Hilda went over to the bell and rang it.
Susan answered the summons.
"Give the cabman this shilling," said Mrs. Quentyns, "and tell him that he is not required."
"You have done quite right, my love," said Quentyns, "and when you have got over your first little feeling of annoyance you will see the matter in the same light that I do. I'll telegraph to Little Staunton early in the morning to tell them to expect us by the 11.35 train. Of course Judy would have been asleep hours before you reached her to-night, so it does not really matter in the least. Now come upstairs and put on your very prettiest dress, that soft pinkchiffon, in which you look as like a rosebud as a living woman can. I have capital news for you, Hilda, my love; Rivers certainly is a brick; he has got me to act as counsel in——"
Quentyns talked on in his satisfied, joyous tones. He had won the victory, and could afford to be very gracious and generous. Hilda felt as if a band of iron had closed round her heart. She was too gentle and sweet in hernature to be long angry with her husband. Her face was a little paler than usual, however, and her eyes had a weary look in them.
Rivers, who was a very keen observer of human nature, noticed the silent depression which hung over her, but Hilda's husband failed to observe it.
"I can easily manage her," he muttered to himself; "it would have been beyond all reason to have had her absent from our first little dinner just because a child had fainted. Pshaw!—I can see that Hilda is going to be painfully fanciful; it all comes from having lived so long in the wilds of the country. Well, I'll take her down to Little Staunton to-morrow, and be specially good to her, but she must get over these absurdities about Judy, or life will not be worth living."
The dinner was a success, and Hilda looked lovely. A certain dreamy and far-away expression in her eyes added the final touch to her beauty. When the men sat together over their wine, Rivers spoke of her in tones of rapture.
"You're the luckiest fellow in Christendom, Jasper," he said; and Jasper Quentyns, who looked up to Tom Rivers as the first of men, felt almost unduly elated.
"The lines had fallen unto him in pleasantplaces," so he muttered, and he forgot all about a sick and troublesome child, who at this very instant was counting the moments as they flew by, in her tired and weary eagerness to clasp her arms round Hilda's neck. Hilda, too, in the drawing room, was shedding silent tears, but what did that matter? for Jasper knew nothing about them.
Jasper and Hilda were both musical, and Tom Rivers liked nothing better than to listen to their voices as they sang duet after duet together. The songs they sung were full of noble sentiment. Their voices mingled until they almost sounded like one rich and perfect note, as they sang of love which is undying and self-sacrifice which is ennobling. Quentyns felt a glow of elation filling his breast as his eyes rested on his lovely wife, and the tormentings of Hilda's conscience were soothed, and she too partly forgot Judy.
Breakfast was served at an early hour next morning at Philippa Terrace, and Quentyns and his wife started for Little Staunton in time to catch the early train.
They arrived at the small way-side station not more than twenty minutes beyond the appointed time, and were met by Miss Mills, who was driving the village pony cart herself.
The governess addressed Hilda in a calm voice, but her inward excitement was very manifest. Jasper had talked cheerfully all the way down to Little Staunton, but Hilda had been almost silent. She felt oppressed—she dreaded she knew not what. Now, when she looked into Miss Mills' face, she felt her own turn pale.
"No, don't speak," she said, in a hoarse whisper. "Iknowyou have bad news, but don't tell me now, not until we get home."
"Get in," said Miss Mills, "I won't be long driving you to the Rectory. It is rather important for you to be there, and as the trap only holds two, perhaps Mr. Quentyns won't mind walking."
"Not at all," said Jasper, in his pleasant, calm voice. "Can you make room for our portmanteau at your feet, Miss Mills? Ah, yes, that will do nicely. By the way, how are you all? has Judy quite recovered from her faint?"
When Quentyns asked this question Miss Mills bent suddenly forward under the pretense of trying to arrange the portmanteau.
"We won't be any time getting to the Rectory," she said, turning to Hilda; she touched the pony with her whip as she spoke and they started forward.
"It was such a pity you didn't come lastnight," said the governess, as they entered the Rectory gates.
"I—I could not help it," murmured poor Hilda. With one hand she was tightly grasping the edge of the little basket-carriage.
"Stop, there is father," she exclaimed suddenly. "Let me go to him. I—I can bear him to tell me if there is anything wrong."
In an instant she reached the Rector's side. Her arms were round his neck, her head on his shoulder, and she was sobbing her heart out on his breast.
"My dearest Hilda, my darling!" exclaimed her father. "What is the meaning of all this? Why are you so dreadfully unhappy, my child?"
"Tell me, father, I can bear it from you. Is she—is she dead?"
"Is who dead?"
"Ju—Judy."
"No; what has put that into your head? But your little sister is very ill, Hilda. I am not so much alarmed about her as your Aunt Marjorie is, but I confess her state puzzles me. I saw Dr. Harvey to-day, and I don't think he is satisfied either. It seems that for some reason the child was over-excited last night—there was difficulty in getting her off to sleep, and she cried in a very distressing and painful way. Iwas obliged to sit with her myself. I held her hand, poor little darling, and had a prayer with her, and—toward morning she dropped off into a sleep."
"And," continued Hilda, "she was better when she awoke, wasn't she? Do say she was, father. You showed her Jasper's telegram the very instant she awoke, and of course she got much better immediately."
"My dear Hilda, the strange thing about Judy has yet to be told; she has not awakened—she is still asleep, and this prolonged and unnatural sleep disturbs Dr. Harvey a good deal."
"I had better go to her at once, father. I think the doctormustbe mistaken in thinking sleep bad. When Judy sees me sitting by her bedside she will soon cheer up and get like her old self. I'll run to her now, father: I don't feel half so much alarmed since you tell me that she is only asleep."
The Rector gave vent to a troubled sigh; Hilda put wings to her feet, and with the lightness and grace of a bird sped toward the house.
"Hilda, Hilda!" called her husband. He had taken a short cut across some fields, and was now entering the Rectory domain. He thought it would be quite the correct thing for his wife to wait for him. Surely she would like to enterher family circle with him by her side. "Hilda, stop!" he cried, and he hurried his own footsteps.
But if Hilda heard she did not heed. She rushed on, and soon disappeared from view inside the deep portico of the old house.
Two or three moments later she was sitting without her hat and jacket, and with a pair of noiseless house-slippers on her feet, by Judy's bedside.
All the preparations which had been made with such care and pains by Babs the night before were still making the nursery look pretty. The little china animals sat in many funny groups on the mantelpiece. The white and blue violets lay in a large bowl on a table by Judy's side. One of the little sleeper's hands was thrown outside the counterpane. Hilda touched it, and found that it burned with a queer, uncomfortable dry heat.
"But how quietly she is sleeping," said Mrs. Quentyns, looking up with tears in her eyes at Aunt Marjorie; "why are you so solemn and sad?—surely this sleep must be good for her."
"My dear, Dr. Harvey calls Judy's state more stupor than sleep. He says the most extraordinary things about the child ... that she has been over-excited and subjected to a severemental strain, and he fears mischief to the brain. But surely he must be wrong, for nothingcouldexceed the quiet of our life at the Rectory since the money has gone and you have left us, and no one could have been less excited in her ways than Judy has been since your marriage. I can't make out what Dr. Harvey means."
"I think I partly understand," said Hilda; her voice had a choking sound. "Don't talk so loud, Aunt Marjorie," she said impatiently; "you will wake her—you will disturb her."
"But that is what we wish," interrupted the old lady. "The doctor says we must do everything in our power to rouse her. Ah, and here he comes; he will speak for himself."
"I am glad to see you, Mrs. Quentyns," said Dr. Harvey. "Your not coming last night when the child expected you was a grave mistake, but better late than never."
He stopped speaking then, and bent over the little sleeper.
"Draw up the blind," he said to Aunt Marjorie, "let us have all the light we can. Now don't be frightened, Mrs. Quentyns—I am not going to hurt the child, but I must examine her eyes."
Hilda felt as if she could scarcely restrain a stifled scream as the doctor lifted first one lidand then the other, and looked into the dark depths of the sweet eyes.
"The child has got a shock," he said then. "I feared it when I called early this morning. I don't say for a moment that she will not get better, but her state is very precarious. I should like you to nurse her altogether, Mrs. Quentyns; much depends on her seeing you by her side when she wakes."
"I shall never leave her again," said Hilda, in a stifled tone.
The doctor's practiced ear caught the suppressed hysteria in her voice.
"Come, come," he said cheerily, "you have nothing to blame yourself for. The little one has evidently felt your absence in a remarkable manner."
"Really, doctor, you are quite mistaken," began Aunt Marjorie. "What I principally noticed about Judy was her great quietness and docility since Hilda left. She scarcely spoke of her sister, and seemed content to sit by my side and read fairy stories. She used to be such a very excitable, troublesome sort of child. If you ask me frankly, I think Hilda's absence did her good."
The doctor looked from the old lady to the young.
"I must adhere to my first opinion," he said. "The child has missed her sister. Now that you have come, Mrs. Quentyns, we will hope for the best."
He went out of the room as he spoke, and Aunt Marjorie followed him.
Hilda dropped on her knees by Judy's cot.
"Oh, my God, forgive me," she cried, in a broken anguished prayer. "I did wrong to leave my little Judy. Oh, God, only spare her life, and I will vow to you thatwhateverhappens she shall never leave me in the time to come. Whatever happens," repeated Hilda, in a choking voice of great agony. Then she rose and took her place beside the child's bed.
A couple of hours passed by. The door was softly opened, and Quentyns stole into the room. He had been very much shocked by the doctor's account of the child, and his face and tone expressed real sympathy as he came up to Hilda.
"Poor little Judy!" he said, bending over her. "What a queer excitable little mite it is."
Hilda beat her foot impatiently.
"Well, my darling," continued Quentyns, not noticing his wife's suppressed agitation, "she will soon be all right now you have come. Lunch is ready, Hilda, and you must be weakfor want of food. Come, dearest, let me take you down to the dining room."
"Oh, no, Jasper! I can't leave Judy; and please, please don't talk so loud."
"The doctor does not wish her to be kepttooquiet, Hilda; and surely, my dear, you are not going to starve yourself!"
"Aunt Marjorie will send me something to the dressing room; I can't be away from Judy even for one minute. There is no saying when she will awake, and I must be with her when she does."
Quentyns smothered an impatient exclamation. After a pause he said gently:
"As you please, dear; I will bring something up myself to the dressing room for you," and he stole on tip-toe out of the room.
Nothing could be more patient than his manner, and Hilda reproached herself for the feeling of irritation which his presence gave her.
There came a sigh from the bed—the faintest of sounds; Mrs. Quentyns turned her head quickly, and saw to her rapture that Judy's big greeny-gray eyes were wide open and fixed earnestly on her face. There was no surprise in the pretty eyes, nor any additional color in the pale little face.
"Hilda," said Judy, "Ithoughtit was only a bad dream—you never went away, did you?"
"I am never going to leave you again, Judy," replied her sister; "never, never, as long as we both live. I vow—I promise—nothing shall part us, nothing except death."
Hilda flung herself on her knees by the child's bed, and burst into hysterical sobs.