A Young Mutineer Part 14

"Can't you hire a little bedstead of some sort?" said Mildred, "and put it up in that room, and send for the child. What does Judy care about furnished rooms!"

"You think she looks really ill, do you, Mildred?"

"I will be candid with you, Hilda. I did not like her look--she suffers.

It is sad to read suffering in a child's eyes. When I got a peep into Judy's eyes I could see that her soul was drooping for want of nourishment. She is without that particular thing which is essential to her."

"And what is that?"

"Your love. Do send for her, Hilda. Never mind whether the spare-room is furnished or not."

Hilda sat and fidgeted with her gold chain. Her face, which had been full of smiles and dimples, was now pale with emotion, her eyes were full of trouble.

"Why are you so irresolute?" asked Mildred impatiently.

"Oh, I--I don't know. I am not quite my own mistress. I--I must think."

The servant entered the room with a letter on a little salver. Hilda took it up.

"Why, this is from Judy," she exclaimed. "Perhaps she's much better already. Do you mind my reading it, Mildred?"

"Read it, certainly. I shall like to know how the dear queer mite is getting on."

Hilda opened her letter, and, taking out a tiny pink sheet, read a few words written on it.

"MY DEAR HILDA:

"I am writing you a little letter. I hope you are quite well. I don't fret, and I hope you don't. I think of you and never forget you. I give you a kiss for now and for to-night, and for every other night, and a million, thousand kisses for always.

"Your loving "JUDY."

"Here are my kisses."

A whole lot of crosses and round o's followed.

"Here is my tex for us both. 'The Lord wach between me and thee.'

"JUDY."

Hilda's eyes filled with sudden tears.

"There is something else in the envelope," she exclaimed. "I think a scrawl from Aunt Marjorie. I had a volume from her yesterday. I wonder what she wants to write about again."

"MY DARLING HILDA:

"Now don't be frightened, my dear, but I have something to tell you which I think you ought to know. Our dear little Judy fainted in a rather alarming way in church yesterday. Of course we sent for the doctor, and he says she is very weak, and must stay in bed for a day or two. He says we need not be alarmed, but that her strength is a good deal run down, and that she must have been fretting about something. It just shows how little doctors know, for I _never_ saw the child sweeter, or more gentle, or more easily amused. You know what a troublesome little creature she used to be, always flashing about and upsetting things, and bringing all kinds of obnoxious insects into the house; but she has been just like a lamb since your wedding, sitting contentedly by my side, looking over her fairy story-books, and a.s.suring me she wasn't fretting in the least about you, and that she was perfectly happy. Babs did say that she heard her crying now and then at night, but I fancy the child must have been mistaken, for Judy certainly would not conceal any trouble from me. I will write to you again about her to-morrow. She directed this envelope to you herself yesterday morning before church, so I am slipping my letter into it. Don't be frightened, dear, we are taking all possible care of her.

"Your affectionate "AUNT MARJORIE."

"There," said Hilda, looking up with a queer, terrified expression in her eyes, "I knew how it would be. I married Jasper to please myself, and I have killed Judy. Judy's heart is broken. Oh, what shall I do, Milly, what shall I do?"

"Let me read Aunt Marjorie's letter," said Mildred.

Her quick, practical eyes glanced rapidly over the old lady's illegible writing.

"I don't think you have killed her, Hilda," said Miss Anstruther then, "but she is simply fading away for want of the love which was her life.

Go back to her; go back at once, and she will revive. Come, there is not a moment to be lost. I'll run out and send a telegram to Little Staunton. I'll tell them to expect you this evening. Where's an A B C?

Have you got one?"

"I think there is one on the wagon in the dining room. I'll fetch it."

Hilda ran out of the room; she brought back the time-table in a moment.

Her face was white; her hands shook so that she could scarcely turn the leaves.

"Let me find the place," said Mildred. "There, let me see. Oh, what a pity, you have lost the four o'clock train, and there isn't another until seven. Never mind, say you will take that one. You'll arrive at Bickley at twenty minutes to ten, and soon after ten you'll be at the Rectory. I'll run at once and send off the telegram, for the sooner Judy's heart is relieved the better."

Mildred rushed to the davenport, filled in a telegraph-form, and brought it to Hilda to read.

"There, is that right?" she exclaimed. "Put your name to it if you are satisfied."

Hilda dashed the tears, which were still blinding her eyes, away.

"Yes, yes," she exclaimed, "that will do. Take it at once, this moment, before--before I have time to change my mind."

Mildred had written, "Tell Judy to expect me at ten to-night." Hilda added her name, and Mildred prepared to leave the room.

"Good-by, Hilda," she said. "I won't come back, for you will need all your time to pack, and to leave things in order for your Jasper.

Good-by, dear. Of course, you could not _think_ of changing your mind, it would be wicked, cruel; yes, it would be terribly cruel. Good-by, Hilda, good-by."

Mildred seated herself in the victoria and desired her coachman to drive to the nearest telegraph-office.

"I have made a discovery," she said, under her breath. "Jasper Quentyns was not the prince; no, _my_ prince has not yet shown his shining face above the horizon. Doubtless he will never come; but better that than to think he has arrived and wake to find him common clay. Hilda is absolutely _afraid_ of her husband. No, Hilda, I would not be in your shoes for a good deal."

CHAPTER X.

WAITING.

The days are clear, Day after day, When April's here, That leads to May, And June Must follow soon.

Stay, June, stay!

If only we could stop the moon And June!

It was an April day, but the weather was still cold at Little Staunton, and Aunt Marjorie thought it well to have a nice bright fire burning in Judy's bedroom.

Judy was sitting up in bed, her hair was combed back from her face, she wore a pink dressing-gown, the black shadows under her eyes were not so marked as yesterday, her firm little lips had an expression of extreme and touching patience. Judy's movements were somewhat languid, and her voice when she spoke had lost its high, glad pitch.

Aunt Marjorie kept coming in and out of the room. Miss Mills fussed with the fire, went to the window to look out over the landscape and to make the same remark many times.