A Young Mutineer Part 22

"She did not look perfectly happy," he thought. "I hope Quentyns is good to her. I seldom saw a more charming face than hers, but with such eyes, so full of expression, so full of that sort of dumb, dog-like affectionateness, she must, she will suffer horribly if there comes a cloud between her husband and herself. Quentyns is the best of fellows, but he can be dogged and obstinate--I hope to goodness there's nothing up in that pretty little home of theirs."

Aloud Rivers said abruptly, "I had thought of asking you to dine at the club with me, and then we might have gone to see Irving in _Henry VIII._,--a friend has given me two stalls,--but on second thoughts I can dispose of those tickets. What I should really like best is to come home with you, Quentyns, and have the pleasure of another chat with your wife. I want to hear you both sing too--I seldom heard two voices better suited to go together. May I invite myself to dinner to-night, Jasper?"

"Oh, certainly," said Jasper, after a moment's awkward hesitation. "I'll just wire to Hilda, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," said Rivers; "but remember, I am coming to take pot-luck."

Jasper ran off to the nearest telegraph office.

Rivers saw that his proposal was anything but welcome, but for that very reason he was determined to carry it out.

An hour later he found himself standing in the pretty drawing room in Philippa Terrace, talking to the most charming little girl he had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Quentyns had run up at once to his room, and Hilda had not yet put in an appearance, but Judy, who was sitting on a sofa reading "Sylvie and Bruno," jumped up at once and came forward in her shy but self-possessed little way to meet her sister's guest.

"How do you do?" she said. "Where would you like to sit?"

"I prefer standing, thank you," said Rivers. He smiled at Judy and held out his hand. "So you are the young mutineer," he said suddenly.

Judy's big eyes looked up at him in surprise--she was dressed in a green silk frock, with a broad golden-brown sash round her waist. Her dress was cut rather low in the neck, and she had several rows of golden-brown beads round her throat. The quaint dress suited the quaint but earnest little face.

"What do you mean by calling me such a queer name?" said Judy.

"I am a great friend of your brother-in-law's," said Rivers, now dropping into a chair and drawing the child toward him, "and he has told me all about you--you mutinied when Mrs. Quentyns went away--it was very wrong of you, very wrong indeed."

"You can't judge anything about it," said Judy, the sensitive color coming into her face; "you are on Jasper's side, so you can't know."

"Of course I'm on Jasper's side, he's an excellent fellow, and a great friend of mine."

"I don't like him," said Judy; "it isn't to be expected I should."

"Of course not, you wouldn't be a mutineer if you did."

"I wish you wouldn't call me by that horrid name," said Judy. "I can't quite understand what it means, but I'm sure it's disagreeable."

"A mutineer is always a disagreeable person," continued Rivers, looking with his pleasant eyes full at the child. "He is in a state of rebellion, you know. People aren't nice when they rebel against the inevitable."

"What's the inevitable?" asked Judy.

"The inevitable!" repeated Rivers. "The inevitable," he continued gravely, "is what has to be met because it cannot be avoided. The inevitable stands directly in a person's path; he can't go round it, he can't jump over it, he has just to meet it bravely and make the best friend he possibly can of it."

"Oh," said Judy, "that sounds like a fairy tale. Babs and I love fairy tales, particularly the old, old ones--the Jack the Giant Killer sort--you understand?"

"Jack the Giant Killer had lots of inevitables to meet," pursued Rivers.

"Yes, of course," said Judy; "now I know what you mean as far as dear Jack was concerned, but I don't know what you mean about me."

"Well, you see, Miss Judy--you don't mind my calling Jasper's little sister Miss Judy?"

"Oh, don't talk of him," said Judy, a frown between her brows.

"But I must if I'm to explain my meaning to you, for he's the inevitable."

"Now what _do_ you mean?--you're the most puzzling sort of grown-up person I ever met!"

"And you're the most intelligent sort of little person I ever met. Now let me explain matters to you. Your sister is very pretty, isn't she?"

"Pretty?" said Judy meditatively--"pretty is such a common sort of word--if you call flowers pretty, Hilda is, I suppose, but she's much, much more than pretty."

"I understand. I'm quite sure I understand you perfectly. And your sister is good too, and sweet?"

"Oh, yes!" Judy's eyes filled with tears, she blinked her eyelashes and looked out of the window.

"Well, now," said Rivers, and his voice was quite tender, for Judy's manner and att.i.tude touched him wonderfully. "Well, now, you see it was inevitable that some man should love a woman like your sister, and want to make her his wife, and wish to take her altogether to himself. It was inevitable, also, that a woman with a gentle heart like Mrs. Quentyns should love this man in return and want to devote her life to him."

"Don't!" said Judy, suddenly; "I understand you now, I don't want you to say another word." She crossed over to the window and stood there with her back to Rivers, looking gravely out.

Hilda came down in her rose-colored silk, and Rivers did not wonder that Judy thought of the flowers when she looked at her.

Hilda was unfeignedly glad to see him, and they had a pleasanter evening than any since Judy's advent in Philippa Terrace. Rivers paid a great deal of attention to the smallest and youngest member of the party, and not only completely won Hilda's heart by so doing, but induced Quentyns to look at his little sister-in-law with new eyes, and to discover for the first time, that under certain conditions that wistful little face could be both lovely and charming.

"Remember about the inevitable," said Rivers, as he bade the child good-night.

"What did Mr. Rivers mean, Judy?" said Hilda. "Oh, Judy, what flushed cheeks!--I did wrong to let you sit up, but you seemed so happy--you seemed to take such a fancy to Mr. Rivers."

"He was disagreeable to me--very disagreeable," said Judy, "but I liked him."

"And what did he mean by reminding you of the inevitable?" continued Hilda.

"It was in that way he was disagreeable," replied Judy. "I can't explain, Hilda darling; good-night--I am going to bed now."

That evening, in their own room, Hilda came suddenly to her husband's side.

"Jasper, don't you think you might forget about it now?" she said timidly.

"Forget about what, Hilda?" He had been genial and pleasant until she began to speak; now his face stiffened in every outline, and the look came over it which always took poor Hilda's courage away.

"We were so happy to-night," she began in a faltering voice--"we had quite the best evening we have had since----" here she hesitated.

"Since Judy came," pursued Jasper. "Yes, that goes without saying, there were four of us--even the dearest friends are dull when there are three, and of course Rivers is capital company, he's quite the best fellow all round I ever met."

"Oh, yes!" said Hilda, a little impatiently, "but I don't want to talk of him. Jasper dear, let us forget, let us--oh, let us be as we were before."

Tears choked her voice, she turned her head away.

"I am so tired," she said suddenly; "I am the sort of girl who wants sunshine, I am so tired of being without it."

"When you talk in that metaphorical style I fail to understand you,"

said Quentyns. "There's not the least cloud between us that I am aware of, and if you are not in the sunshine, Hilda, I am afraid it is your own fault. I have done everything in my power to meet your wishes. You profess great love for me, and great love for your sister, and now you have us both, what can you possibly want besides?"