A Young Mutineer Part 12

Hilda's face turned slightly pale.

"Of course, darling," she said, looking up sweetly at her tall husband; "but where are we to go on Sat.u.r.day night? You spoke of going home."

"And so we are going home, my love--or rather we are going toward home; but as we have not taken a house yet, we must spend a week with the Malverns when first we get to England. I will send a line to my aunt, and tell her to expect us on Sat.u.r.day."

Hilda said nothing more. She smothered the ghost of a sigh, and sitting down by the wood fire, which, notwithstanding the genial weather, was acceptable enough in their lofty room, began to open her letters. The Rectory budget was of course first attended to. It contained several inclosures--one from her father, which was short and princ.i.p.ally occupied over a review of the last new theological book he had been reading, one from Aunt Marjorie, and one from Miss Mills.

"None from Judy," said Hilda, in a voice of surprise; "she has only written to me once since we were married."

She spoke aloud, and looked up at her husband for sympathy. He was reading a letter of his own, and its contents seemed to amuse him, for he broke into a hearty laugh.

"What is it, Jasper?" asked Hilda. "What is amusing you?"

"Something Rivers has said, my love. I'll tell you presently. Capital fellow he is; if I get this brief I shall be in tremendous luck."

Hilda opened Aunt Marjorie's letter and began to read. The old lady was a somewhat rambling correspondent. Her letters were always closely written and voluminous. Hilda had to strain her young eyes to decipher all the sentences.

"I must say I dislike poverty [wrote Aunt Marjorie]; you are well out of it, Hilda. It is my private conviction that your father has absolutely forgotten that his income has jumped down in a single day from three thousand three hundred and fifty pounds a year to the three hundred and fifty without the odd thousands; he goes on just as he has always done, and is perfectly happy. Dean Sharp sent him his last book a week ago, and he has done nothing but read it and talk of it ever since--his conversation in consequence is most tiresome. I miss you awfully, my love. I never could stand theology, even when I was surrounded by comforts, and now when I have to stint the fires and suffer from cold feet, you may imagine how unpleasant it is to me. My dear Hilda, I am afraid I shall not be able to keep Miss Mills, she seems to get sillier every day; it is my private conviction that she has a love affair on, but she's as mum as possible about it. Poor Sutton cried in a most heartrending way when she left; she said when leaving, 'I'll never get another mistress like you, ma'am, for you never interfere, even to the clearing of the jellies.' I am glad she appreciates me, I didn't think she did while she was living with us. The new cook can't attempt anything in the way of soup, so I have given it up for dinner; but your father never appears to miss it. The garden is looking horrible, so many weeds about.

The Anstruthers have all gone up to London--taken a house for the season at an enormous price. How those people do squander money; may they never know what it is for it to take to itself wings!

"By the way, Judy has not been well; she caught cold or something the day of your wedding, and was laid up with a nasty little feverish attack and cough. We had to send for Dr. Harvey, who said she had a chill, and was a good deal run down. She's up again now, but looks like a ghost with her big eyes. She certainly is a most peculiar child--I don't pretend to understand her. She crept into the room a minute ago, and I told her I was writing to you, and asked her if she had any message.

She got pink all over just as if she were going to cry, and then said:

"'Tell Hilda that I am not fretting a bit, that I am as happy as possible. Give her my dear love and heaps of kisses' (my dear Hilda, you must take them for granted, for I am not going to put crosses all over the letter).

"Then she ran out of the room as if she had nothing further to say--really a most queer child. Babs is a little treasure and the comfort of my life.

"Your affectionate old Aunt, "MARJORIE."

"Jasper!" said Hilda, in a choked sort of voice. "Jasper!"

"What is it, my darling? Why, how queer you look, your face is quite white!"

"It is about Judy; she's not well!" said Hilda. "I ought to go to her, I ought not to delay. Couldn't we catch the night mail?"

"Good gracious!" said Quentyns, alarmed by Hilda's manner. "What is wrong with the child? If it is anything infectious----"

"No, no, it is nothing of that sort; but in any case, whatever it is, I ought to go to her--I ought not to delay. May I telegraph to say we are starting at once?"

"My darling, how excitable you are! What can be wrong with the child?"

"Oh, Jasper, you don't understand--Aunt Marjorie says----Here, read this bit."

"I can't read that crabbed, crossed writing, Hilda."

"Well, I'll read it aloud to you; see where it begins--'Judy has not been well----'"

Hilda read the whole pa.s.sage, a lump in her throat almost choking her voice. When she had finished, Quentyns put his arms round her and drew her to his heart.

"Why, you poor little, foolish, nervous creature," he said, "there's nothing wrong with Judy now; she was ill, but she's much better. My darling Hilda--my love, you must really not disturb yourself about a trifling mishap of this sort."

"It isn't a trifle, Jasper. Oh, I know Judy--I know how she looks and what she feels. Oh, do, do let me go back to her, darling."

"You read that letter in such a perturbed sort of voice that I can scarcely follow its meanings," said Quentyns. "Here, give it to me, and let me see for myself what it is all about. Why will old ladies write such villainous hands? Where does the pa.s.sage begin, Hilda? Sit down, darling, quiet yourself. Now let me see, here it is--'Judy has not been well----'"

Hilda's hands had shaken with nervousness while she read her aunt's letter aloud, but Quentyns held the sheet of thin paper steadily. As the sentences fell from his lips, his full tones seemed to put new meaning into them--the ghostly terrors died out of Hilda's heart. When her husband laid down the sheet of paper, and turned to her with a triumphant smile, she could not help smiling back at him in return.

"There," he said, "did not I tell you there was nothing wrong with Judy now? What a little goose you are!"

"I suppose I am; and if you really, really think--if you are quite sure that she's all right----"

"Of course, I am absolutely certain; doesn't Aunt Marjorie say so? The fact is, Hilda, you make too great a fuss about that little sister of yours--I feel almost jealous of her."

CHAPTER IX.

STARVED.

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss?

--E. BARRETT BROWNING.

In the first pleasant spring-time of that same year, Mrs. Anstruther, a very gay and fashionable-looking woman of between forty and fifty years of age, turned on a certain morning to her daughter and made a remark:

"Don't forget that we must pay some calls this afternoon, Mildred."

Mildred was standing by the window of their beautiful drawing room. The window-boxes had just been filled with lovely spring flowers; she was bending over them and with deft fingers arranging the blossoms and making certain small alterations, which had the effect of grouping the different ma.s.ses of color more artistically than the gardener had done.

"Yes, mother," she said, half turning her handsome head and glancing back at her parent. "We are to make calls. I am quite agreeable."

"I wish you would take an interest, Mildred; it is so unpleasant going about with people who are only just 'quite agreeable.' Now, when I was a young girl----"

"Oh, please, mother, don't! The times have completely changed since you were young; enthusiasm has gone out of fashion. I am nothing if I am not fashionable! Of course, if calls have to be made, I shall make them.

I'll put on my most becoming bonnet, and my prettiest costume, and I'll sit in the carriage by your side, and enter the houses of those friends who happen to be at home, and I'll smile and look agreeable, and people will say, 'What an amiable woman Miss Anstruther is!' I'll do the correct thing of _course_, only I suppose it is not necessary for my heart to go pitter-patter over it. By the way, have you made out a list of the unfortunates who are to be victimized by our presence this afternoon?"

Mrs. Anstruther sighed, and gazed in some discontent at her daughter.

"It is so disagreeable not to understand people," she said. "I don't profess to understand you, Mildred. If you will give me my visiting-book I can soon tell you the places where we ought to go. And oh, by the way, should we not call on Hilda Quentyns? she has taken a house somewhere in West Kensington."

"You don't mean to tell me that the Quentyns are in town?" said Mildred, turning sharply round and gazing at her mother.

"Of course; they have been in London for some time. I met Lady Malvern yesterday, and she gave me Hilda's address. She seems to have gone to live in a very poky place. See, I have entered the name in my address-book--10, Philippa Road, West Kensington."

"Then of course we'll go to her--that will be _really_ nice," said Mildred with enthusiasm. "We might go to Hilda first and spend some little time with her."

"But Mrs. Milward's 'at home' begins quite early. I should not like to miss that."