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A Young Mutineer, a novel by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 14. The Little Rift |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. THE LITTLE RIFT No backward path; ah! no returning; --JEAN INGELOW.
Judy's advent in the house gave him no small annoyance. Hilda's behavior about Judy, her fit of sudden passion, above all the relinquishing of her engagement ring, had cut him to the quick. He was proud, sensitive, and jealous; when, therefore, he could smile at Judy and chat in light and pleasant tones to his wife, when he could remark on the furniture in the spare room, and make many suggestions for the comfort of the little sister-in-law whom he detested, he was under the impression that his conduct was not only exemplary but Christian. It was true that he went out a good deal in the evenings, not taking Hilda with him as had been his original intention, but leaving her at home to enjoy the society of the child who had brought the first cloud into his home. "I am going to dine out to-night, Hilda," he would say. "A man I know particularly well has asked me. Afterward he and I may go to the theater together. You won't mind of course being left, as you have Judy with you?" "Oh, no, dear!" she replied, on the first of these occasions; and when Jasper came to say something of this sort two or three times a week, Hilda's invariable gentle answer was always that she did not mind. Jasper was kind--kindness itself, and if she did feel just a trifle afraid of him, and if she could not help knowing all over her heart that the sun did not shine now for her, that there was a cloud between her husband and herself, which she could neither brush away nor penetrate, she made no outward sign of being anything different from the cheery and affectionate Hilda of old. There were subjects now, however, which she shrank from touching on in Jasper's presence. One of them was her engagement ring, another the furniture in Judy's room. That ring she had been told by more than one connoisseur was worth at least fifty pounds, and Hilda was certain that the simple furniture which made Judy's little room so bower-like and youthful could not have cost anything approaching that sum. Still Jasper said nothing about giving her change out of the money which he had spent, and Hilda feared to broach the subject of the ring to him. Another topic which by a sort of instinct she refrained from was Judy herself. When Jasper was in the house Hilda was always glad when Judy retired to her own room. When the gay little voice, happy now, and clear and sweet as a lark's, was heard singing snatches of gay songs all over the house, if Jasper were there, Hilda would carefully close the door of the room he was sitting in. "Not now, Judy darling," she would say, when the child bounded eagerly into their presence. "Jasper is just going out--when he is out I will attend to you. Go on with your drawing in the dining room until I come to you, Judy." Judy would go away at once obedient and happy, but Hilda's face would flush with anxiety, and her eyes would not meet her husband's. So between each of these young people there was that wall of reserve which is the sad beginning of love's departure; but Hilda, being the weaker of the two and having less to occupy her thoughts, suffered more than Jasper. On a certain evening when Judy had been a happy resident of No. 10 Philippa Terrace for over a month, Quentyns was about to leave his office and to return home, when his friend Tom Rivers entered his room. "Have you any engagement for to-night, Quentyns?" he asked abruptly. "None," said Jasper, visible relief on his face, for he was beginning to dislike the evenings which he spent with a wife who always had a sense of constraint over her, and with the knowledge that Judy's presence was only tolerated when he was by. "I am at your service, Tom," said Jasper. "Do you want me to go anywhere with you?" Rivers was a great deal older than Quentyns, he was a very clever and practical man of the world. He looked now full at Jasper. He had not failed to observe the eager relief on his friend's face when he asked if he had any engagement. To a certain extent Jasper had made Rivers his confidant. He had told him that Hilda's little sister, who had been so ill and had given them all such a fright, was staying now at Philippa Terrace. Rivers shrewdly guessed that Hilda's little sister was scarcely a welcome guest, as far as Quentyns was concerned. Rivers had taken a fancy to pretty Mrs. Quentyns. With a quick mental survey he saw again the picture of the young wife on the night when he had dined at Philippa Terrace. "She did not look perfectly happy," he thought. "I hope Quentyns is good to her. I seldom saw a more charming face than hers, but with such eyes, so full of expression, so full of that sort of dumb, dog-like affectionateness, she must, she will suffer horribly if there comes a cloud between her husband and herself. Quentyns is the best of fellows, but he can be dogged and obstinate--I hope to goodness there's nothing up in that pretty little home of theirs." Aloud Rivers said abruptly, "I had thought of asking you to dine at the club with me, and then we might have gone to see Irving in _Henry VIII._,--a friend has given me two stalls,--but on second thoughts I can dispose of those tickets. What I should really like best is to come home with you, Quentyns, and have the pleasure of another chat with your wife. I want to hear you both sing too--I seldom heard two voices better suited to go together. May I invite myself to dinner to-night, Jasper?" "Oh, certainly," said Jasper, after a moment's awkward hesitation. "I'll just wire to Hilda, if you don't mind." "Not at all," said Rivers; "but remember, I am coming to take pot-luck." Jasper ran off to the nearest telegraph office. Rivers saw that his proposal was anything but welcome, but for that very reason he was determined to carry it out. An hour later he found himself standing in the pretty drawing room in Philippa Terrace, talking to the most charming little girl he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Quentyns had run up at once to his room, and Hilda had not yet put in an appearance, but Judy, who was sitting on a sofa reading "Sylvie and Bruno," jumped up at once and came forward in her shy but self-possessed little way to meet her sister's guest. "How do you do?" she said. "Where would you like to sit?" "I prefer standing, thank you," said Rivers. He smiled at Judy and held out his hand. "So you are the young mutineer," he said suddenly. Judy's big eyes looked up at him in surprise--she was dressed in a green silk frock, with a broad golden-brown sash round her waist. Her dress was cut rather low in the neck, and she had several rows of golden-brown beads round her throat. The quaint dress suited the quaint but earnest little face. "What do you mean by calling me such a queer name?" said Judy. "I am a great friend of your brother-in-law's," said Rivers, now dropping into a chair and drawing the child toward him, "and he has told me all about you--you mutinied when Mrs. Quentyns went away--it was very wrong of you, very wrong indeed." "You can't judge anything about it," said Judy, the sensitive color coming into her face; "you are on Jasper's side, so you can't know." "Of course I'm on Jasper's side, he's an excellent fellow, and a great friend of mine." "I don't like him," said Judy; "it isn't to be expected I should." "Of course not, you wouldn't be a mutineer if you did." "I wish you wouldn't call me by that horrid name," said Judy. "I can't quite understand what it means, but I'm sure it's disagreeable." "A mutineer is always a disagreeable person," continued Rivers, looking with his pleasant eyes full at the child. "He is in a state of rebellion, you know. People aren't nice when they rebel against the inevitable." "What's the inevitable?" asked Judy. "The inevitable!" repeated Rivers. "The inevitable," he continued gravely, "is what has to be met because it cannot be avoided. The inevitable stands directly in a person's path; he can't go round it, he can't jump over it, he has just to meet it bravely and make the best friend he possibly can of it." "Oh," said Judy, "that sounds like a fairy tale. Babs and I love fairy tales, particularly the old, old ones--the Jack the Giant Killer sort--you understand?" "Jack the Giant Killer had lots of inevitables to meet," pursued Rivers. "Yes, of course," said Judy; "now I know what you mean as far as dear Jack was concerned, but I don't know what you mean about me." "Well, you see, Miss Judy--you don't mind my calling Jasper's little sister Miss Judy?" "Oh, don't talk of him," said Judy, a frown between her brows. "But I must if I'm to explain my meaning to you, for he's the inevitable." "Now what _do_ you mean?--you're the most puzzling sort of grown-up person I ever met!" "And you're the most intelligent sort of little person I ever met. Now let me explain matters to you. Your sister is very pretty, isn't she?" "Pretty?" said Judy meditatively--"pretty is such a common sort of word--if you call flowers pretty, Hilda is, I suppose, but she's much, much more than pretty." "I understand. I'm quite sure I understand you perfectly. And your sister is good too, and sweet?" "Oh, yes!" Judy's eyes filled with tears, she blinked her eyelashes and looked out of the window. "Well, now," said Rivers, and his voice was quite tender, for Judy's manner and attitude touched him wonderfully. "Well, now, you see it was inevitable that some man should love a woman like your sister, and want to make her his wife, and wish to take her altogether to himself. It was inevitable, also, that a woman with a gentle heart like Mrs. Quentyns should love this man in return and want to devote her life to him." "Don't!" said Judy, suddenly; "I understand you now, I don't want you to say another word." She crossed over to the window and stood there with her back to Rivers, looking gravely out. Hilda came down in her rose-colored silk, and Rivers did not wonder that Judy thought of the flowers when she looked at her. Hilda was unfeignedly glad to see him, and they had a pleasanter evening than any since Judy's advent in Philippa Terrace. Rivers paid a great deal of attention to the smallest and youngest member of the party, and not only completely won Hilda's heart by so doing, but induced Quentyns to look at his little sister-in-law with new eyes, and to discover for the first time, that under certain conditions that wistful little face could be both lovely and charming. "Remember about the inevitable," said Rivers, as he bade the child good-night. "What did Mr. Rivers mean, Judy?" said Hilda. "Oh, Judy, what flushed cheeks!--I did wrong to let you sit up, but you seemed so happy--you seemed to take such a fancy to Mr. Rivers." "He was disagreeable to me--very disagreeable," said Judy, "but I liked him." "And what did he mean by reminding you of the inevitable?" continued Hilda. "It was in that way he was disagreeable," replied Judy. "I can't explain, Hilda darling; good-night--I am going to bed now." That evening, in their own room, Hilda came suddenly to her husband's side. "Jasper, don't you think you might forget about it now?" she said timidly. "Forget about what, Hilda?" He had been genial and pleasant until she began to speak; now his face stiffened in every outline, and the look came over it which always took poor Hilda's courage away. "We were so happy to-night," she began in a faltering voice--"we had quite the best evening we have had since----" here she hesitated. "Since Judy came," pursued Jasper. "Yes, that goes without saying, there were four of us--even the dearest friends are dull when there are three, and of course Rivers is capital company, he's quite the best fellow all round I ever met." "Oh, yes!" said Hilda, a little impatiently, "but I don't want to talk of him. Jasper dear, let us forget, let us--oh, let us be as we were before." Tears choked her voice, she turned her head away. "I am so tired," she said suddenly; "I am the sort of girl who wants sunshine, I am so tired of being without it." "When you talk in that metaphorical style I fail to understand you," said Quentyns. "There's not the least cloud between us that I am aware of, and if you are not in the sunshine, Hilda, I am afraid it is your own fault. I have done everything in my power to meet your wishes. You profess great love for me, and great love for your sister, and now you have us both, what can you possibly want besides?" "Only your forgiveness, your complete and full forgiveness." "I have nothing to forgive, my dear. You do your best--no one can do better than their best." "No," said poor Hilda, with a sigh. She did not add any more. "I trust you are not going to turn into a fanciful sort of woman," said Quentyns, half an hour later. "If there's a person in the world who irritates me it's a woman with whims, a woman who has a grievance." "Oh, no, Jasper! I won't have a grievance," she replied humbly. _ |
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