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A Young Mutineer, a novel by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 18. Giant-Killer |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. GIANT-KILLER And the Prince, seeing that it was of no use to remonstrate, --THE GOLDEN BRANCH.
"What an extraordinary thing for the child to do!" said Hilda. "She said, ma'am, that Mr. Rivers asked her to lunch, and that you knew about it." "Yes; but why did she not say something to me when she was going out? It is so unlike Miss Judy to keep a thing of that sort to herself." Susan made no reply. She was no longer responsible, and was only too anxious not to betray the child. "Mr. Rivers says he'll take the best care of her, ma'am," she said, after a pause. "Well, go and take off your hat, Susan, and lay the lunch," said Hilda, feeling still more puzzled, but not caring to pursue her inquiries any further. She had a sense of aggrievement and a feeling of added loneliness as she sat down to her solitary lunch. She missed Judy, and wondered at her sudden want of confidence; but soon the deeper trouble which Jasper's conduct had caused returned to trouble her, and she forgot her little sister in the sadness of her thoughts. She spent a long and very lonely afternoon indoors, for she had not the heart to go out, and besides, she expected Judy home every minute. She thought it likely that Rivers would take her somewhere after lunch, but surely he would bring her back to Philippa Terrace in time for tea. Hilda ordered some cakes which she knew were special favorites of Judy's to be ready for this meal; and then she sat in her pretty little drawing room, and tried to divert her thoughts over the pages of the latest novel which had arrived from Mudie's. It was either not specially interesting, or Hilda found it difficult to concentrate her attention. She flung the book on her knee, and sat absorbed in what Judy and Babs called a brown study. She was startled out of her meditations by Susan bringing in the tea-tray and the little kettle and spirit-lamp. "Did Mr. Rivers say when he would bring Miss Judy home?" she asked of the maid. Susan colored and hesitated slightly in her reply. "No, ma'am; he said nothing at all about coming home," she answered. Hilda noticed her hesitation, but did not wish to question her further. After the servant left the room, however, she began for the first time to feel both impatient and uneasy with regard to her little sister. "If Judy is not here by six o'clock," she said to herself, "I will go to Lincoln's Inn Fields in search of her. How extraordinarily impatient she was to go out this morning; and how very odd of her to insist on going to Mr. Rivers', and to say nothing at all to me about it; and then how queer--how more than queer--her not having yet returned. My sweet little Judy, the most thoughtful child who ever breathed--it is unlike her to cause me anxiety of this sort." Hilda did not care for the social little meal which was generally so lively when Judy was present. Immediately afterward she ran upstairs to put on her bonnet and jacket; and as she was going out, left a message with Susan. "If Miss Judy and Mr. Rivers come," she said, "please say that I have gone to Lincoln's Inn Fields, as I felt anxious about the child being so long away." "Yes, ma'am," said the servant. "Whistle for a hansom for me, please, Susan." Susan did so; and half an hour afterward Hilda was making inquiries at Rivers' chambers with regard to his whereabouts. The clerks there could give her no definite information. Mr. Rivers had gone out with a little lady soon after twelve o'clock, and had told them not to expect him back that day. "I shall find Judy at Philippa Terrace when I go home," thought Mrs. Quentyns. "It was thoughtless of her not to tell me how long she would be out--it was wonderfully unlike her. Still, of course, she will be at home now." But when Hilda returned no Judy was there to greet her; but her husband's face was seen looking somewhat impatiently out at the drawing-room window. He came at once to help his wife out of the cab, and entered the house with her. "Where were you?" he asked. "It is nearly time for dinner." "I won't be a moment getting dressed, Jasper; but--but--I am anxious about Judy." Quentyns had meant to be specially nice and kind to Hilda after his evening's pleasure, but he felt it impossible now to keep the glib, sarcastic words back. "I might have known when I saw that fretful look on your face, that Judy was the cause. Now, what is her latest transgression?" "Oh, there is a telegraph-boy," said Hilda eagerly. "What--what--oh, _is_ there anything wrong?" She rushed to the hall-door herself, before Jasper could prevent her. Susan, coming into the hall to answer the imperative double knock, was sent back to the kitchen regions, in a cross voice, by her master. "Really, Hilda," began Quentyns, "your impetuosity is most undignified. I must say that these kinds of scenes are----Now, what is the matter, my love--tears again. A coming home of this sort is not the most cheerful sort of thing, you must allow." "Oh, Jasper, Jasper, I'm not even listening to you," said poor Hilda. "What can be the matter? what can be wrong? Here's a telegram from Mr. Rivers. He says--see what he says. "'Little Staunton Rectory. Have brought Judy home. Will call and see you soon after ten this evening. Rivers.'" "Rivers!" repeated Jasper. His voice grew thoughtful; he did not like Rivers, of all men, to be mixed up in his domestic affairs. Rivers, at least, must keep him on a pedestal, and know nothing of his weaknesses--of that infirmity of temper which he struggled against, and yet, in Judy's presence, could not conquer. He forgot all about Judy herself in his wonder as to how Rivers had got mixed up in the matter. Hilda had seated herself on the sofa, and still holding the open telegram in her hand, was trying furtively to wipe away her fast-falling tears. "I wish you'd stop crying, Hilda," said her husband. "There's nothing to alarm you in this telegram--nothing whatever. If Judy is with a man like Tom Rivers, she's as safe as child can be." "But she has gone home, Jasper; she has gone home to the Rectory, without even telling me." "Well, my dear, it's impossible for me to explain away the vagaries of that most eccentric child. I presume, however, that Rivers has a key to the mystery, and as he says he will call here after ten o'clock, we shall know all about it then. No amount of discussion can explain it in advance. So, Hilda, perhaps you will go upstairs and get ready for dinner. I'm frightfully hungry." Hilda rose wearily and left the room at once. "I think I can guess something--just something of what it means," she said to herself. "My little Judy--my brave little Judy!" Judy's letter was lying hidden all this time under the large pin-cushion on Hilda's dressing table, but as it was not seen, its contents, which would have explained a good deal, were of course not known. The dinner which followed this unhappy beginning of the evening was as dismal and constrained as if poor "trumpery" were still present. Quentyns, like most men who work hard all day, was particular about this meal, and to-night of all nights cook had not sent up the soup to his satisfaction, nor the _entree_ seasoned to his taste. It was all one to Hilda just now what she ate, but Quentyns pushed his plate impatiently away, and kept on referring to the excellent dinner he had had the night before at the Star and Garter. He spoke of his evening as delightful, and of the house of the new friend where he had slept as altogether irreproachable. Hilda felt that he was talking at her all the time, but she had not the heart to reply to him. The dismal little meal came to a mournful end, and the two went into the drawing room to wait for Rivers' arrival. Hilda took up a handkerchief she was embroidering for Judy, and took special pleasure in putting in new and exquisite stitches as her thoughts centered themselves in dull wonder and pain round the child. Quentyns became absorbed in the contents of a novel. He read for half an hour--he was by no means in a good humor, and now and then his eyes were raised to look over the top of the book at his wife. There was a patient sort of suffering about her which irritated him a good bit, as he could see no possible reason to account for it. He asked her one or two questions, which she answered in an abstracted manner. No, he certainly had not bargained for this sort of thing when he married. Hilda was not only pretty, but she could be, when she liked, sufficiently intellectual to satisfy his requirements. He was fastidious and had peculiar views with regard to women. He hated the so-called clever women, but at the same time he despised the stupid ones. To please him a woman must have tact--she must quickly understand his many moods. She must sympathize when he demanded sympathy, and when he showed by his manner that he wished to be left alone, she must respect his desires. Hitherto, Hilda had abundantly fulfilled his expectations. If Judy had not been in the house, all that he had ever dreamed of in his married life would have come to pass. But to-night, although Judy was not there to intermeddle, Quentyns felt that, for all the good his wife was doing him, he might as well be a bachelor at his club. "My dear," he said with some impatience, and forgetting himself not a little, "do you know that you have made precisely the same remark now five times? I did not quarrel with its brilliancy the first time I heard it, but on the fifth occasion I will own that it gave me a certain sense of _ennui_. As I see that your thoughts are miles away, I'll just run round to the club for a bit and find out if there is anything going on." Hilda raised her eyes in some surprise. A certain expression in them seemed to expostulate with Jasper, but her lips said nothing; and just at that moment a hansom was heard to bowl up rapidly and stop with a quick jerk at the door. A moment later Rivers entered the drawing room. He came up at once to Hilda with the air of a man who has a message to deliver. "Judy hopes you got her note long ere this, Mrs. Quentyns." "Her note--no; I have not received any," replied Hilda. "She wrote to you this morning, and put the note under the pin-cushion in your room." "How romantic and Judy-like!" said Quentyns suddenly. "Quite the correct thing, according to the old-fashioned novels. When the heroine elopes she always leaves a note under the pin-cushion." "How do you do, Jasper? I did not notice you until this moment," said Rivers. He gave the other man a sharp glance, which suddenly made him feel queer and small. "The only thing old-fashioned that I notice about Judy," he said, "is her noble unselfishness. She has gone home because--because--I think you can both guess why; an explanation would only be disagreeable. She begged me to tell you, Mrs. Quentyns, that she meant to be really _perfectly_ happy at home, and she hoped you and Jasper would follow her example here. Poor little Giant Killer! she slew an enormous giant to-day, and there are few people I respect as I do that dear little soul. I saw her safely to the Rectory, as, when she came to me, I thought it best to humor what was more a noble inspiration than a child's whim. I will say good-night now." Hilda scarcely said a word while Rivers was speaking. When he left the room, however, she stood still for an instant, listening intently. Jasper had gone out to see his friend into his hansom. Would he come back? He did for a moment. "Don't sit up for me, Hilda," he said; and there was a tone in his voice which caused her heart to sink down low, very low indeed. She heard the door slam behind him, and then she knew that she was alone. The servants had gone to bed--to all intents and purposes she was absolutely alone in the silent house. So Judy's sacrifice was in vain. Judy had thought, by absolutely sacrificing herself, that she could bring this husband and wife together. It was not to be. Hilda fell on her knees and buried her burning face in the sofa cushions. "Oh, Judy, little Judy!" she sobbed. "Oh, Judy, what shall I do? My pain is greater than I can bear." She knelt in this position for a long time. Her little sister's face was distinctly seen in her mental vision; Judy seemed surrounded by a sort of halo--but what of Jasper? Had all the love which united these two hearts vanished like a dream? Was he never coming back to her? Would he always misunderstand her? Oh, if she thought that, she would not stay with him--she would go back to the Rectory and to Judy, and forget her golden dream and turn back again to the old life. For three months she would have been a wife. She would forget that time. She would own to Jasper that she had made a mistake. She would be Hilda Merton once more. Alas! alas! that could not be. Vows and ceremonies tied her. She had stood beside the altar and given herself away. There was no going back on that step. Jasper was not the Jasper of her dreams. He must have a small mind not to understand Judy, and she had married him because she thought his mind so big and his heart so great. After all, Judy was far greater than Jasper. "My little Judy," she murmured again, and then she sank down a pitiable, weak, inconsolable figure on the hearth-rug close to the expiring fire. She thought over the scenes of the last night and longed to have them back again. "If Judy's arms were round me, I should not feel so lonely," she murmured. "Oh, Jasper, how can you turn from me? How can you fail to understand that my heart at least is big enough to love both Judy and you?" The lamp burnt dimly and the fire went completely out. Hilda presently fell asleep in the darkness, and now a moonbeam shining into the drawing room and falling across her tired face made it look white and unearthly, almost like the face of a dead girl. It was in this attitude that Quentyns found her when he came back somewhere between one and two o'clock. His conscience was reproaching him, for Rivers, an old friend, had not failed to give him a little spice of his mind; but he was just in that irritable condition where repentance is almost impossible, and when self-abasement only leads a man into further wrong-doing. When he saw Hilda's tired face, he said to himself with a sort of laugh: "If I don't encourage this sort of thing, I shall doubtless be more and more of a tyrant in the eyes of my good wife and that precious fastidious child and Rivers. Well, well, I cannot see the beauty of voluntary martyrdom. If Hilda weren't quite such a goose, she would have gone to bed two hours ago, instead of falling asleep here to the utter disregard of her health and personal appearance." So Quentyns, looking cross and uninterested, shook his wife not too gently; spoke in a commonplace tone, out of which he purposely excluded every scrap of emotion, and asked her how much longer she wanted to sit up. Hilda stumbled to her feet without a word. She went upstairs and to bed, but although her husband quickly slept, she lay awake until the morning. She came down to breakfast, looking tired and fagged. There were black lines under her eyes, and when Quentyns asked her what was the matter, she not only owned to a headache, but burst into tears. When a man is thoroughly cross, nothing irritates him more than tears on the part of his wife, and Quentyns now so far forgot himself as to rise hastily from the breakfast table and leave the room, slamming the door behind him. He put in his head a moment later to nod to his wife and say good-by. "If I'm late, don't wait dinner for me," he said, and then he left the house. Hilda had plenty of time to wipe her tears away in the deserted breakfast room. The pain at her heart was almost greater than she could bear. Her gentle nature was stirred by what she considered gross injustice on the part of her husband. "He does not care for me any more," she muttered. "I thought him great and brave and good. I know he is clever; I suppose he is great, and perhaps even good; but I am too small and too little for him--I fail to understand him, and he does not love me any more. Oh, if only little Judy had stayed with me I should not feel as broken-hearted as I do at present. if only little Judy had stayed with me, I should loneliness of my life?" At this moment Hilda's dismal meditations were interrupted by the sound of carriage wheels, which not only came rattling down the little street, but stopped at the hall door. She started up in a fright, pushed back her disordered hair from her flushed face, and the next moment found herself in the voluminous embrace of Jasper's aunt, Lady Malvern. "My dear," exclaimed that good lady, "I must apologize for not looking you up sooner, but I have been particularly busy; for Cynthia, my eldest girl, has just got engaged and we are to have a wedding in the autumn and all kinds of fuss; but I have not forgotten you, Hilda, and I have just come to carry you off for the day. It is a lovely day, and we are all going to drive to Richmond to picnic in the park. Run upstairs, my love, and put on your hat and gloves. I mean to carry you off immediately." "But Jasper has just gone to town--he will be so sorry to have missed you," said Hilda. "Well, I suppose I can endure life even though I have missed Jasper," said Lady Malvern with a laugh. "In any case I want you, and so does Cynthia. Cynthia has taken a great fancy to you, Hilda; so run away and get ready. I will send a wire to your husband to come down and join us later on. There now, will that content you, you poor, devoted little soul?" Hilda smiled and a faint color came into her cheeks. "Run up to your room, my dear," said good-natured Lady Malvern. "Be as quick as ever you can getting into the prettiest costume you have, for we are to be quite a gay party, I can tell you. Now run off, dear, run off, and pray don't keep me waiting a moment longer than you can help." Lady Malvern was the sort of person who never could bear anyone to say "no" to her, and Hilda at first unwillingly, but presently with a sort of elation and even defiance which was altogether foreign to her gentle nature, prepared to make herself smart for her unexpected gayety. She went upstairs, pulled out one of her prettiest trousseau dresses, and, with hands that trembled, began to array herself in it. Meanwhile Lady Malvern sat perfectly still in the tiny little dining room, with a somewhat troubled look on her good-tempered face. "Now, what has Jasper been doing?" she said to herself. "That sweet child doesn't look happy. Marks of tears round her eyes, flushed cheeks--very low spirits. Dear, dear! this will never do. Not more than three months from the wedding-day." Lady Malvern had seen very little of her nephew since his marriage. She knew nothing, therefore, about Judy; but she was just that fussy, good-natured, hearty sort of body who could not bear anyone with whom she came in contact to be miserable. "I must set this right somehow or other," she said to herself. "Jasper doesn't understand Hilda, and Hilda is wretched, and thinks, poor dear little goose, that the sun will never shine again, and that life is practically over for her. She does not know, how could she, poor darling, how many rubs married people have to live through, and how jolly and comfortable they are notwithstanding them. Well, well, I am glad I called. I must set things right between this pair, whatever happens." Lady Malvern little guessed, however, that she personally was to have very little to do with smoothing the rumpled rose-leaves in Hilda's and Jasper's lives. When Mrs. Quentyns returned to the little dining room the flush on her cheeks and the softened look in her sweet eyes but added to her beauty, and when she found herself bowling away through the pleasant spring air in her kind friend's company, in spite of herself, her spirits could not help rising. Lady Malvern had a house in Hans Place, and there Cynthia and two younger girls were waiting for them. The day was a perfect one, very warm and summery for the time of year, and the young people all agreed that it was by no means too early in the season to enjoy themselves even in this _al fresco_ fashion. They were to end with tea at the "Star and Garter," and they all started off now for this day's pleasure in the highest spirits. Hilda was quite young enough to enjoy such a proceeding immensely. As space divided her from her little home in Philippa Terrace her spirits rose, and now, if Judy had only been by her side, she would have felt perfectly happy. By the time they reached Richmond Park all trace of tears and sorrow had left her charming face, and she was one of the brightest and gayest of the company. No one could make herself more useful than Hilda, and when her husband appeared on the scene, he was a good deal astonished to see her flying lightly about, ordering and directing the arrangements of the picnic dinner. Her gay laughter floated to his ears on the summer breeze, her cheeks were bright, her eyes shining. In short, she looked like that charming Hilda who had won his heart in the old Rectory garden not a year ago. Hilda was busily helping to concoct a salmon mayonnaise, when, raising her eyes, she met her husband's gaze. He smiled back at her a look of approval and love, and her heart rose considerably. There were other people present besides Jasper who thought Mrs. Quentyns a very beautiful young woman. There were others waiting to show her the most polite and gracious attentions, and these facts considerably enhanced her value in her husband's eyes. In short, he began to fall in love with his wife over again, and Judy for the time being was forgotten by this pair. The day passed all too quickly, and at last the moment arrived when the little party must turn their steps homeward. "You must both come home and have supper with us," said Lady Malvern to her nephew and his wife. "Oh, yes, I shall take no denial; and now, Jasper, will you drive Cynthia and her sister back to town? I mean Hilda to accompany me." Jasper was all smiles and good-humor. He was willing to accede to any arrangement which could add to the pleasures of the day, and Hilda, in whose heart a faint hope had lingered that she and her husband might have gone home together, followed Lady Malvern to her carriage with a little sigh. The whole party was soon driving home. Lady Malvern and Hilda had a small victoria to themselves. As soon as ever they left the rest of the party, the older woman turned and gave a full glance at the girl by her side. "Hilda," she said suddenly, "you look better than you did this morning." "Oh, I feel better," she replied. "You have done me lots of good," she continued, raising her eyes with an affectionate light in them to Lady Malvern's kind face. "I am delighted to have helped you, my love," replied the elder lady; "and now, Hilda, I want to say something. You have been married very little over three months. It is a very common illusion with girls to imagine that married life is a time of perpetual bliss." Hilda opened her lips to say something, but Lady Malvern interrupted. "My dear," she said, "you must hear me out. Married life is not a bed of roses, and the first year which a young couple spend together is generally the hardest of all." "What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Quentyns. "Why the first year?" "Because, my dear, the glamour is gradually being removed. The girl is finding that the hero whom she married is a right good fellow, but still that he is human; that he has his faults and his aggravations; that he needs to be humored and consulted and petted, and to have his smallnesses--yes, my dear, mark the word, his smallnesses--attended to. The husband is making similar discoveries with regard to the lovely angel whom he took to his arms. She, too, is mortal--affectionate, of course, and sweet and womanly, and ten thousand times better than a real angel would be to him, but still with her faults, her tempers, and her fads. The young couple discover these things in each other during the first two or three months of married life. All their future happiness depends on how they both act, under the influence of these discoveries. They have got to learn that, though they are made one by the priest, they are both of them distinct individualities. If they are to be happy together, they must both give and take. I know a married couple who are now the happiest, prosiest, most attached old pair in the world, who went through no end of storms during their first eventful year. But they learned a lesson and profited by it. The wife does not now think her husband the greatest hero that ever set foot on this earth, and the husband does not call his wife an angel; but I think, if their love were analyzed, it would be found greater, deeper, and more tender than that early glamour which was love, but was not equal to the love tried by fire which comes later in life. Now, my dear, you will forgive my little lecture. If you had need of it, ponder my words; if not, forgive an old woman for worrying you. Hilda, what a sweet, pretty little house you have! I always knew that my nephew Jasper had good taste. I am so truly glad that you have the same." While Lady Malvern was speaking, Hilda pulled down her veil, and struggled hard to keep the tears from her brown eyes. She could not quite manage this, however, and Lady Malvern, giving her a half-glance, saw that her eyelashes were wet. She did not add any more in words, but she made up her mind to help the young girl by every means in her power. They drove on rapidly. The horses were fresh, and they were getting over the ground with great rapidity, when a quickly approaching train startled one of the horses. At the same time a man on a bicycle darted round the corner, and before he could help himself, knocked against the carriage. The double shock was enough for the affrighted horses. They plunged, reared, and became unmanageable, and the next moment the little victoria was overturned, and Lady Malvern and Mrs. Quentyns were flung with some violence on the pavement. Lady Malvern was not severely hurt, and she sprang almost immediately to her feet, but the fright and fall had stunned Hilda, who lay white and still on the ground without any attempt at movement. The usual crowd of course collected, and it was on this scene that Quentyns, in high good-humor, and forgetting for the time being that there was a crumpled rose-leaf in the world, suddenly came with some more of the picnic party. As a matter of course, they all drew up. Quentyns was driving a high dog-cart. He sprang to the ground and ran into the midst of the crowd. Then for the first time he realized what had happened. His young wife, looking as if she were dead, was lying in Lady Malvern's arms. Lady Malvern was seated on a doorstep. Some men were hastily coming forward with a shutter. "My God!" exclaimed Quentyns; "is she dead?" "No, my dear boy, no--only stunned," said Lady Malvern. "Here, take her into your own arms, Jasper. You are stronger than I. Let her see your face first when she opens her eyes. No medicine will be so reviving as that." Here a woman came up and spoke to Lady Malvern. "I shall be only too pleased to have the young lady brought into my house, madam," she said. "A very good doctor lives just round the corner, and he can be summoned at once." "Yes, yes; send for him immediately," said Quentyns. He strode into the house with his light burden. Hilda was laid upon a sofa, and in a few moments the doctor arrived. He felt her all over and said that no bones were broken, and that no severe injury of any kind had occurred, but both fall and shock had been very severe. He counseled her being left undisturbed in her present condition until the morning. "Then I will go home," said Lady Malvern. "You will look after her yourself, Jasper?" "Need you ask?" he replied. He followed his aunt to the door as he spoke. "Hilda had a narrow escape of her life," said Lady Malvern, looking full at her nephew as she spoke. "How sudden and awful it all was! There were we chatting together, and thinking no more of danger than if such a thing did not exist, when all in an instant came that awful bolt from the blue. I shall never forget the swinging of the carriage and the way the horses looked when they plunged and kicked about, or the white piteous face of your sweet little Hilda, who would not scream nor show any outward sign of terror. I thought it was all over with both of us--I did really, Jasper. I cannot tell you how thankful we ought to be that things are no worse." "You are sure then that Hilda is not in danger?" queried the young man in a tremulous voice. "No, no; what did you hear the doctor say, you silly boy? Perhaps the best thing that could have happened to Hilda was this accident, dreadful as it was for the moment. Perhaps--well, Jasper, I think you must know what I mean." "Has Hilda been talking about me?" asked Jasper, a wave of red mounting to his brow. "Talking about you?" replied his aunt, now thoroughly angry; "only in the way that Hilda can talk of those whom she loves best on earth. Jasper, you are the luckiest man in the world, and if you don't contrive to make that sweet child the happiest woman, I for one will have nothing to do with you again." "No fear, no fear, if she loves me in that way," murmured Jasper. He turned abruptly on his heel and went back to the room where his wife lay. He was a very proud, reserved man, and even in moments of the deepest agitation would scarcely reveal his real sentiments. But that moment, when he had looked at his wife's white face and had thought that she was dead, had shaken his whole nature to its very depths. He made a discovery then that nothing in all the world was of any real value to him compared with Hilda's love. "I have acted like a brute to her," he murmured. "Rivers was right. She's too good for me--she's fifty times too good for me. My God, how white she looks as she lies there! Suppose the doctor is wrong. Why doesn't she speak or move? Why do they make so little of this continued unconsciousness? I think I'll go for some further advice. Oh, my darling, my darling, if you are dead, if your sweet life has been taken, I shall never forgive myself--never!" But just then there was a faint stir of the heavily fringed lids which lay against Hilda's white cheeks. The next moment the sweet brown eyes were opened wide, and Hilda looked into her husband's face. "What has happened?" she asked drowsily. "I don't remember anything. Where are we?" "Together, Hilda," he replied; "together. Does anything else really matter?" "Oh, no, no!" she said, with a catch in her voice. * * * * * Next day Mrs. Quentyns was so far convalescent as to be able to return to the little house in Philippa Terrace. Jasper, of course, accompanied her. They had found a good deal to say to each other, between the moment when she had opened her eyes the night before and now. Both had some things to confess--both had some words of forgiveness to crave from the other. So complete now had been the interchange of soul and of love between this pair that it seemed impossible that anything could ever separate such warm hearts again. "And it has been all Judy's doing," said Jasper as they sat that evening in the little drawing room. "What do you mean?" asked his wife. "Why," he answered, "if Judy had not brought matters to a crisis by going away, we might have drifted further and further apart. But now we must have her back again, Hilda. She has fulfilled her mission, dear little soul, and now she must have her reward." "No," said Hilda, in a firm voice. "Judy shall have her reward, but not by coming back. She did right to go. I could never, never have sent her away, but she did right to go." "Do you mean to tell me, Hilda, that you could be perfectly happy to live without her?" "With you," she said, laying her hand on his arm, and looking into his face with her sweet eyes shining through tears. He put his arms round her and kissed her many times. "Jasper," said Hilda after a few minutes, "I think the first wrong step that I took--the first beginning of that unhappy time--was when I lost my temper down at Little Staunton and gave up my engagement ring." "No wonder you lost your temper when I was such a brute about everything," said Quentyns. "It was my fault." "No, no; it was mine." "Have you missed the ring, Hilda?" "Missed it?" she held up her slender finger. "My heart has been empty without it," she said. "Then let me put it on again for you." "Can you? Is--isn't it sold?" "Of course not. Do you think that I could sell that ring?" "But--but the furniture in Judy's room?" "When I saw that you must have Judy with you, Hilda, I went into debt for the furniture. Oh, never mind all that now, my darling--the debt is paid in full a week ago, and I have the receipt in my pocket. Now I am going upstairs to fetch the ring." _ |
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