A Young Mutineer Part 25

"You look awfully pretty; you look quite lovely."

"What a dear little flatterer you are! Does it really matter whether I look pretty or not? Aunt Marjorie would scold you, child, for praising my looks to my face; she would say you were encouraging vanity."

"And I should tell her to her face that I was not," answered Judy stoutly. "It's right to look beautiful; it's copying the flowers. Now run and put on your India muslin dress, Hilda."

Hilda left the room, and half an hour later the two sisters met in the little drawing room. There were fresh flowers in the vases; and a great bowl of primroses, which Aunt Marjorie had sent from the Rectory, was placed on the little table in the square bay-window.

Judy in her white dress stood near the flowers. She took up one, and in an absent sort of fashion pulled it to pieces. Susan announced dinner, and the sisters dined together in great state, and with apparent enjoyment. Hilda joked about everything, and Judy, catching up her spirit, did likewise.

"Let us imagine, just for to-night, that I am grown-up," she said; "treat me as if I were your grown sister--not your little sister--Hilda."

Hilda felt in the humor to comply with any request Judy made.

"We will have our coffee in the drawing room," she said. "Black coffee for me, please, Susan, but bring in a little jug of cream for Miss Judy's. Now, dearest," turning to the child, "don't forget that the play is going on; we have dined out with numbers, oh, numbers of guests, and now we are in the large a.s.sembly-room, alone in the crowd, happy because we are together."

Judy had thrown herself back into a deep arm-chair in the little drawing room while Hilda was speaking; her eyes had a sort of starry radiance about them, her cheeks were slightly flushed, her cloudy soft brown hair was thrown back from her white brow.

Hilda moved about the room; she was restless notwithstanding the enforced calm she was putting upon herself. Judy smiled when Hilda spoke, but in her heart certain words kept repeating themselves--they had repeated themselves like a sort of mournful echo in that poor little heart all day.

"All the moments you are away from me are long and wearisome," Hilda had said to her husband. "All the moments."

And then he had said to her:

"You don't find three trumpery. I wish I didn't!"

"So I'm the trumpery," thought Judy to herself. "I'm three. And all the moments while Hilda is away from Jasper are long and wearisome. Poor Hilda! poor darling! how well she hid it all from me; how good, how very good she has been to me; but I'm glad I know. It was a lucky, a very lucky thing that the door of the breakfast room was left slightly open this morning, and so I was able to hear Jasper's words."

"How silent you are, dearest," said Hilda, looking at the child.

"I beg your pardon," said Judy, jumping up. "I was thinking."

"Think aloud then, sweet. Let me share your pretty thoughts."

"But they are not pretty, Hilda; and I think I'd rather no one shared them. Now let us talk about old times--about the dear old times before there was a Jasper."

"Judy," said Hilda, "there is just one thing I should like to say to you. Even if it gives you pain, I ought to remind you, my darling, that Jasper is my husband; that I love him. Oh! Judy, Judy, my heart aches with love to him. My heart aches because I love my husband so much."

Judy clenched her hands; a great wave of crimson swept over her face.

Hilda had hidden her own face in her hands, and did not notice the child's agitation. Presently the little sister's hand softly touched her forehead.

"And you're lonely to-night, poor Hilda, because your Jasper is away?"

"Yes, Judy, it's true. I'm afraid even to tell you how lonely I am."

"And you've been trying to seem cheerful, just to please me."

"And to please myself too," said Hilda, starting up and wiping the tears from her eyes. "There, we won't talk about it any more; we'll go on pretending that we are having an awfully jolly time."

"You're very brave, Hilda," said Judy; "and when people are brave, things generally come right. Now, may I sit on your knee, just as if I were a baby instead of a tall girl with long legs? _I_ wouldn't make you unhappy, Hilda darling. When there's an inevitable I must face it; I must, and you will see that I will. Jack the Giant Killer shan't beat _me_ over difficulties when I've made up my mind."

"Judy, your face is flushed, and your eyes are too bright; that strong coffee was bad for you, you won't sleep to-night."

"I dare say I shan't sleep; but now let us talk of old times."

"Only for a few moments, dear; you look so excited that I shall not rest until I see you safely in bed."

Judy laughed, and declared stoutly that she never felt better.

Half an hour afterward she went up to her pretty little bedroom, Hilda promising to follow her in about a quarter of an hour, if she possibly could.

When the elder sister entered the room, she found Judy standing by her bed in her frilled night-dress.

"You will get cold, love--do get into bed," said Hilda.

"I want to say my prayers to you, Hilda, if you don't mind," said Judy, "just as I used when I was a very little girl."

"Of course, darling, if you wish it."

Hilda sat down, and the little sister knelt at her knee.

The old baby prayers were said aloud; but suddenly, in the midst of them, Judy bent her head and murmured something which Hilda could not hear.

She jumped up a moment later and put her arms round her sister's neck.

"You won't be lonely long, Hilda," she said. "It will be all right; you'll see it will be as right as possible. I am glad you are fond of Jasper. I am really, really, awfully glad."

"Good-night, my darling," said Hilda, kissing her. She went out of the room with tears in her eyes.

"Poor little Judy, how little she knows," thought the elder sister; "how very little she knows what a cloud there is between Jasper and me. Oh, if it goes on much longer, I think my heart will break!"

In the meantime, in her pretty white bed, Judy was murmuring an old text to herself:

"He that taketh not up his cross and followeth after Me, cannot be My disciple."

Once, long ago, the Rector had explained this text, or rather given a shadow of its meaning to the child.

"Followeth after Me," she murmured; and a vision came to her of One who, in the great cause of Love, had taken up His cross, even to death.

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

JUDY'S SECRET.

Be strong to _hope_, oh, Heart!

Though day is bright, The stars can only shine In the dark night.