A Young Mutineer Part 11

"So they are, they are soaking; I forgot to put on my boots."

"Oh, won't you catch an awful cold! won't Miss Mills be angry!"

"Never mind; I'll change my stockings and shoes after I have arranged my present."

"It's such a funny wedding present," said Babs. "Do you think Hilda will like it?"

"She'll do more than like it: she'll love it. Don't talk to me any more--I'm too busy to answer you."

Babs fidgeted and mumbled to herself. Judy stood with her back to her.

She used her little fingers deftly--her taste as to arrangement and color was perfect. The sharp thorns p.r.i.c.ked her poor little fingers, but she was rather glad than otherwise to suffer in Hilda's cause. The wedding present was complete, no sign of the note could be seen in the midst of the green leaves and crimson berries. Judy unlocked the door and tumbled back into bed. Miss Mills knew nothing of her escapade, for Babs was far too stanch to betray her.

Just as Hilda in a cloud of white was stepping into the carriage to go to church that morning, a little figure, also in cloudy white with wide-open greeny-gray eyes, under which heavy dark marks were already visible, rushed up to her and thrust something into her hand.

"Your--your wedding present, Hilda," gasped Judy. The strong colors of the red and green made almost a blot upon Hilda's fairness. Her father, who was accompanying her to church, interposed.

"Stand back, my dear, stand back, Judy," he said. "Hilda, you had better leave those berries in the hall; you're surely not going to take them to church."

"Your promise, Hilda, your faithful promise," said Judy in an imploring voice.

Hilda looked at the child; she remembered her words of the night before, and holding the p.r.i.c.kly little bunch firmly, said in a gentle voice:

"I particularly want to take Judy's present to church with me, father."

"As you like, my love, of course; but it is not at all in keeping with that lovely bouquet of hot-house white flowers sent to you by Lady Dellacoeur."

"Then, if so, Lady Dellacoeur's flowers shall stay at home," said Hilda. She tossed the splendid bouquet on the hall table, and with Judy's holly berries in her hand, sprang into the carriage.

"Isn't she a darling?" said Judy, turning with eyes that glowed in their happiness to Miss Mills.

"A goose, I call her," muttered Miss Mills; but Judy neither heard nor heeded her words.

The little church was nearly full of spectators, and one and all did not fail to remark Judy's wedding present. A bride in white from top to toe--a lovely bride in the tenderest bloom of youth, to carry a bouquet of strong dark green and crimson--had anything so incongruous ever been seen before? But Hilda held the flowers tightly, and Judy's hungry heart was satisfied.

"Good-by, my darling," said Hilda to her little sister a couple of hours later; "good-by, Judy; my first letter shall be to you, and I will carefully keep your dear wedding present."

"Hilda, Hilda, there's a little note inside of it, in the heart of it; you'll read it, won't you, and you won't show it to Jasper?"

"If you wish me not, I won't, dearest. How hot your lips are, Judy, and how flushed your face."

"I am just a wee bit shivery," said Judy, "but it's nothing, nothing at all. I'll promise you not to fret, Hilda. Good-by, dear, dear, darling Hilda."

"Good-by, my sweetest little treasure, good-by."

Hilda got into the carriage; her husband took his place by her side.

Mildred Anstruther tossed a great shower of rice after them, Miss Mills and Babs hurled slippers down the avenue, Judy was nowhere to be seen.

"Hilda," said Quentyns, as they were driving to the station, "why did you have such a very funny bouquet in church? You showed me Lady Dellacoeur's flowers last night. Why didn't you wear them, darling?

Those harsh holly berries and leaves weren't in your usual taste."

"But you're not angry with me for carrying that little bouquet, Jasper, are you?"

"My darling, could I be angry with you for anything?"

"The little bunch of holly was Judy's wedding present," said Hilda, tears dimming her eyes; "I promised her that I would wear them. Sweet little darling, my heart aches at leaving her."

Quentyns took Hilda's hand and held it firmly within his own. He said some sympathetic words, for Hilda's slightest grief was grief to him, but in his heart he could not help murmuring:

"That tiresome, morbid child. Poor darling Hilda, I must show her very gently and gradually how terribly she is spoiling Judy."

CHAPTER VIII.

HONEYMOON.

The night is in her hair And giveth shade for shade, And the pale moonlight on her forehead white Like a spirit's hand is laid; Her lips part with a smile Instead of speakings done: I ween, she thinketh of a voice, Albeit uttering none.

--MRS. BARRETT BROWNING.

A month later Mrs. Quentyns was sitting in one of the largest hotels at Rome waiting for her husband to come in. The day was so balmy and genial that it was almost impossible for Hilda to believe that the time of year was early February. Dressed in dark-green velvet, with a creamy feather boa lying by her side, Hilda sat amidst all her unaccustomed surroundings, her eyes looking straight down the lofty room and her thoughts far away. The bride was thinking of her English home--she was an intensely happy bride--she loved her husband devotedly--she looked forward to a good and blessed life by his side, but still (and to her credit be it spoken) she could not forget old times. In the Rectory gardens now the crocuses and snowdrops were putting out their first dark-green leaves, and showing their tender petals to the faint winter sunshine. Judy and Babs, wrapped in furs from top to toe, were taking their afternoon walk--Babs was looking in vain for insect life in the hedges, and Judy was opening her big eyes wide to see the first green bud that ventured to put out its little tip to be greeted by the winter cold. Aunt Marjorie was learning to make use of her legs, and was glowing with warmth of body and vexation of spirit. The Rector was tranquilly writing a sermon which, notwithstanding its polished diction, should yet show the workings of a new spirit which would move his congregation on Sunday.

Hilda seemed to see the whole picture--but her mind's eye rested longest on the figure of the tall, rather overgrown child, whose eyes always wore too hungry an expression for perfect happiness.

"Little darling," murmured Hilda, "how I wish I had her with me here--she'd appreciate things so wonderfully. It is the greatest treat in the world to take Judy to see a really good picture--how her eyes shine in her dear face when she looks at it. My sweet little Judy, Jasper does not care for me to talk much to you, but I love you with all my heart and soul; it is the one drawback to my perfect happiness that I must be parted from you."

Hilda rose as she spoke, and going over to a table on which her traveling-bag stood, opened it, pressed the spring on a certain lock, and taking out a little crumpled, stained letter, read the words written on it.

"My darling Hilda [wrote the poor little scribe], this is to say that I love you better than anyone else in the world. I'll always go on loving you best of all. Please take a thousand million kisses, and never forget Judy.

"P. S.--I'll pray for you every day and every night. I hope you will be very happy. I won't fret if you don't. This letter is packed with love.

"JUDY."

A step was heard along the pa.s.sage; Hilda folded up the letter, slipped it back into its hiding place, and ran down the long room to meet her husband.

"Well, my darling," he exclaimed; "the English mail has just come in, and here's a budget for you."

"And a budget for you too, Jasper. What a heap of letters!"

"Yes, and one of them is from Rivers. He rather wants me in London: there's a good case coming on at the Law Courts; he says I shall be counsel for it if I'm in town. What do you say to coming back to London on Sat.u.r.day, Hilda?"

"You know I shall be only too delighted; I am just pining to be home again. Do you think we could go down to the Rectory? I should so like to spend Sunday there."

"My darling, what are you thinking of? I want to be in London, not in Hampshire. Now that I have got you, sweetheart, I must neglect no chance of work."