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A Young Mutineer, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 16. A Little Girl And A Little Cross |
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_ CHAPTER XVI. A LITTLE GIRL AND A LITTLE CROSS Love that hath us in the net, Love is hurt with jar and fret. --TENNYSON.
"I am so glad you are going to the play," said the little girl. "Why don't you often go--why don't you constantly go out in the evening?" "If I did, Judy, what a dull time you'd have." "You're quite mistaken, Hilda; I shouldn't be dull at all. You don't know how I like story-books, and Susan is such a nice girl. She has got brothers and sisters at home, and she tells me about them when you are out. I am never lonely; I couldn't possibly be sad in the same house with you. If I saw you once or twice a day it would be enough for me--it would really." "My dear little pet," laughed Hilda, "how solemnly you are talking, what a frightfully earnest tone has got into your voice, and how you are puckering your poor little forehead. I have only one thing to say in reply to your generous wish to leave me so much by myself, namely, that I should find it extremely inconvenient and extremely lonely to have you in the house and only see you twice a day." "But suppose I weren't with you at all, Hilda--suppose I were still at the Rectory." "That would be different," said Hilda, in a light tone; "you would be in your natural home, and I----" "But you _would_ be lonely if I were away from you, Hilda; do say you'd be fearfully lonely!" The passion in Judy's voice was unnoticed by Hilda. "I'd miss you, of course, my pet," she said; "but I do declare that stupid driver is taking us wrong. Oh, if he goes up that way it will be such a round that I shall be late for Jasper's dinner. Poke your parasol through the little window in the roof, Judy, and stop him, do." Judy obeyed, the driver received his directions in due course, and a moment or two later Hilda and Judy were standing in the little hall at Philippa Terrace. Quentyns came suddenly forward. "Why, Jasper, you have come back already," said the wife. "It isn't five yet, but I--I can dress in no time. Have you got the tickets?--where are we going?" "Come into the drawing room, Hilda, I want to say a word to you," said Quentyns. "Run upstairs and take your things off, Judy," said Hilda. She followed her husband into the little drawing room and shut the door. "Well?" she said. Her voice was still gay, but a little, just a little, of the old fear was creeping back into her heart. "I am ever so sorry, Hilda, to disappoint you," said Quentyns, "but when I went to town this morning I absolutely forgot an engagement I made a week ago. I have to go down with two or three men to Richmond. We are to dine at the Star and Garter, and afterward Philip Danvers has asked me to go home with him. The Danvers are charming people--have a beautiful house on the river, and everything in the best possible style. I should rather like to cultivate them. It is never a good plan to throw over friends who may be influential; still, if you really wish it, Hilda, I'll come home to-night and make some sort of excuse to Danvers--wire to him that I am ill, or something of the kind. Of course it is too late for me to get tickets for the play, but if you would like me to stay at home, I'll--I'll do it--so there!" Hilda's face, which had been white, was now flushed. "Why didn't you tell me this morning?" she said. "Why did you forget? I spent a day of hope, and now--now----" Her eyes filled with sudden tears, she bit her lips and turned away. Her action, which seemed almost pettish, annoyed Quentyns. "You needn't cry," he said. "I never supposed you could be so childish. Do you think I forgot on purpose? I was looking forward to my time at Richmond, but it slipped my memory that this was the day. You needn't cry, however, for if you have suddenly taken such a frantic desire for my society, it is at your service. I shall go out and wire to Danvers, and be back again in half an hour." After all, Mrs. Quentyns had plenty of self-control. The annoyance and distress in her voice had altogether left it when she spoke again. "Of course you must go, Jasper," she said. "You don't suppose for a quarter of an instant that I should stand in your way. Let me go up with you and help you to put the things you want into a bag, and you will want some tea before you start. I'll ring and tell Susan to prepare it. Now come along, dear; I'm glad of course that you are having this pleasure." As Hilda ran upstairs her manner was once more quite cheerful. Quentyns, however, whose conscience was smiting him, although he didn't know it, could not help acting more or less like a bear with a sore head. "I shouldn't have accepted the invitation," he said, "upon my word I shouldn't, did I not know that you would have Judy to keep you company. You know I haven't that passion for children you have, and----" The door was closed behind the two. "Don't say any more," said Hilda, in a frightened sort of voice. "I told you I was glad that you were to have the pleasure. Now which bag will you take? Will the small Gladstone be large enough?" Ten minutes later Quentyns had left the house in a hansom, and Hilda went up to Judy's room. "Come downstairs, darling," she said, "we are to have another long evening all to ourselves. What a good thing I've got my sweet little sister to stay at home with me. Judy, this was to be a festive night, and I had quite a festive dinner prepared. Suppose we keep the occasion, although we are only to be by ourselves. You shall dine with me to-night, Judy, and we'll both dress for dinner. You shall wear white, for you look so sweet in white, and I'll do the same." "Have you got the old India muslin dress that you used to wear at the Rectory before--before there was a Jasper?" said Judy, in a queer, steady kind of little voice. "If you have that old India muslin that father loved and Aunt Marjorie loved, and that Babs and I used always to say you looked like an angel in, will you put it on to-night, Hilda?--will you wear that dress once again?" "What a queer thing!" replied Hilda. "I never threw the old muslin away. I think I can poke it out of some depths somewhere; and it is so soft that, if I shake it out and hang it up for about half an hour, it will be quite presentable. Yon funny Judy, why do you wish to see me in that dress?" "You were all mine when you wore that dress last," said Judy. "I am always yours, my dearest. But don't let us talk sentiment; let us make ourselves smart, and let us come downstairs and be happy. We'll imagine that we are at a very gay party; heaps and heaps of other people in the room, but we two, as is sometimes the case, are more or less alone in the crowd. We are so completely one that other people scarcely affect us. We can talk together, and whisper old secrets about the garden, and Babs, and the animals, and the organ in the church, and the funny chorister-boy who would never sing in tune; we can talk of all these things, although there are throngs and throngs around us, for in a crowd those who love each other often find the best sort of solitude. Come down, Judy, come down, and let's be happy!" "How flushed you are, Hilda; are you well?" "Yes; I never felt better." "You look awfully pretty; you look quite lovely." "What a dear little flatterer you are! Does it really matter whether I look pretty or not? Aunt Marjorie would scold you, child, for praising my looks to my face; she would say you were encouraging vanity." "And I should tell her to her face that I was not," answered Judy stoutly. "It's right to look beautiful; it's copying the flowers. Now run and put on your India muslin dress, Hilda." Hilda left the room, and half an hour later the two sisters met in the little drawing room. There were fresh flowers in the vases; and a great bowl of primroses, which Aunt Marjorie had sent from the Rectory, was placed on the little table in the square bay-window. Judy in her white dress stood near the flowers. She took up one, and in an absent sort of fashion pulled it to pieces. Susan announced dinner, and the sisters dined together in great state, and with apparent enjoyment. Hilda joked about everything, and Judy, catching up her spirit, did likewise. "Let us imagine, just for to-night, that I am grown-up," she said; "treat me as if I were your grown sister--not your little sister--Hilda." Hilda felt in the humor to comply with any request Judy made. "We will have our coffee in the drawing room," she said. "Black coffee for me, please, Susan, but bring in a little jug of cream for Miss Judy's. Now, dearest," turning to the child, "don't forget that the play is going on; we have dined out with numbers, oh, numbers of guests, and now we are in the large assembly-room, alone in the crowd, happy because we are together." Judy had thrown herself back into a deep arm-chair in the little drawing room while Hilda was speaking; her eyes had a sort of starry radiance about them, her cheeks were slightly flushed, her cloudy soft brown hair was thrown back from her white brow. Hilda moved about the room; she was restless notwithstanding the enforced calm she was putting upon herself. Judy smiled when Hilda spoke, but in her heart certain words kept repeating themselves--they had repeated themselves like a sort of mournful echo in that poor little heart all day. "All the moments you are away from me are long and wearisome," Hilda had said to her husband. "All the moments." And then he had said to her: "You don't find three trumpery. I wish I didn't!" "So I'm the trumpery," thought Judy to herself. "I'm three. And all the moments while Hilda is away from Jasper are long and wearisome. Poor Hilda! poor darling! how well she hid it all from me; how good, how very good she has been to me; but I'm glad I know. It was a lucky, a very lucky thing that the door of the breakfast room was left slightly open this morning, and so I was able to hear Jasper's words." "How silent you are, dearest," said Hilda, looking at the child. "I beg your pardon," said Judy, jumping up. "I was thinking." "Think aloud then, sweet. Let me share your pretty thoughts." "But they are not pretty, Hilda; and I think I'd rather no one shared them. Now let us talk about old times--about the dear old times before there was a Jasper." "Judy," said Hilda, "there is just one thing I should like to say to you. Even if it gives you pain, I ought to remind you, my darling, that Jasper is my husband; that I love him. Oh! Judy, Judy, my heart aches with love to him. My heart aches because I love my husband so much." Judy clenched her hands; a great wave of crimson swept over her face. Hilda had hidden her own face in her hands, and did not notice the child's agitation. Presently the little sister's hand softly touched her forehead. "And you're lonely to-night, poor Hilda, because your Jasper is away?" "Yes, Judy, it's true. I'm afraid even to tell you how lonely I am." "And you've been trying to seem cheerful, just to please me." "And to please myself too," said Hilda, starting up and wiping the tears from her eyes. "There, we won't talk about it any more; we'll go on pretending that we are having an awfully jolly time." "You're very brave, Hilda," said Judy; "and when people are brave, things generally come right. Now, may I sit on your knee, just as if I were a baby instead of a tall girl with long legs? _I_ wouldn't make you unhappy, Hilda darling. When there's an inevitable I must face it; I must, and you will see that I will. Jack the Giant Killer shan't beat _me_ over difficulties when I've made up my mind." "Judy, your face is flushed, and your eyes are too bright; that strong coffee was bad for you, you won't sleep to-night." "I dare say I shan't sleep; but now let us talk of old times." "Only for a few moments, dear; you look so excited that I shall not rest until I see you safely in bed." Judy laughed, and declared stoutly that she never felt better. Half an hour afterward she went up to her pretty little bedroom, Hilda promising to follow her in about a quarter of an hour, if she possibly could. When the elder sister entered the room, she found Judy standing by her bed in her frilled night-dress. "You will get cold, love--do get into bed," said Hilda. "I want to say my prayers to you, Hilda, if you don't mind," said Judy, "just as I used when I was a very little girl." "Of course, darling, if you wish it." Hilda sat down, and the little sister knelt at her knee. The old baby prayers were said aloud; but suddenly, in the midst of them, Judy bent her head and murmured something which Hilda could not hear. She jumped up a moment later and put her arms round her sister's neck. "You won't be lonely long, Hilda," she said. "It will be all right; you'll see it will be as right as possible. I am glad you are fond of Jasper. I am really, really, awfully glad." "Good-night, my darling," said Hilda, kissing her. She went out of the room with tears in her eyes. "Poor little Judy, how little she knows," thought the elder sister; "how very little she knows what a cloud there is between Jasper and me. Oh, if it goes on much longer, I think my heart will break!" In the meantime, in her pretty white bed, Judy was murmuring an old text to herself: "He that taketh not up his cross and followeth after Me, cannot be My disciple." Once, long ago, the Rector had explained this text, or rather given a shadow of its meaning to the child. "Followeth after Me," she murmured; and a vision came to her of One who, in the great cause of Love, had taken up His cross, even to death. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and fell asleep. _ |
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