THE PEOPLE WHO GET MARRIED.
Thou wert mine--all mine!...
--Where has summer fled?
Sun forgets to shine,
Clouds are overhead;
Blows a chilling blast,
Tells my frightened heart
That the hour at last
Comes when we must part.
Hurrying moments, stay,
Leave us yet alone!--
All the world grows gray,
Love, when thou art flown.
Judy's soul swelled within her when she heard the music still sending
volumes of sound out of the little church. Miss Mills had not spoken all
the way home. Babs had chattered without a moment's intermission. Her
conversation had been entirely about birds and beasts and creeping
things. Judy had replied with rather less interest than usual. She was
so anxious to hurry home, so fearful of being too late. Now it was all
right. Hilda was still in the church, and, delightful--more than
delightful--the discordant notes of the choir had ceased, and only the
delicious sounds of the organ were borne on the breeze.
"Hilda is in the church," said Judy, pulling her governess by her
sleeve. "Good-by, Miss Mills; good-by, Babs."
She rushed away, scarcely heeding her governess's voice as it called
after her to be sure to be back at the Rectory in time for tea.
The church doors were still open, but the young man in the
cricketing-flannels, who had stood in the porch when Judy had started on
her walk, was no longer to be seen. The little girl stole into the quiet
church on tip-toe, crept up to her sister Hilda's side, and lying down
on the floor, laid her head on her sister's white dress.
Judy's lips kissed the hem of the dress two or three times; then she lay
quiet, a sweet expression round her lips, a tranquil, satisfied light in
her eyes. Here she was at rest, her eager, craving heart was full and
satisfied.
"You dear little monkey!" said Hilda, pausing for a moment in her really
magnificent rendering of one of Bach's most passionate fugues. She
touched the child's head lightly with her hand as she spoke.
"Oh, don't stop, Hilda; go on. I am so happy," whispered Judy back.
Hilda smiled, and immediately resumed the music which thrilled through
and through Judy's soul.
Hilda was eighteen, and the full glory and bloom of this perfect age
surrounded her; it shone in her dark red-brown hair, and gleamed in her
brown eyes, and smiled on her lips and even echoed from her sweet voice.
Hilda would always be lovely to look at, but she had the tender radiance
of early spring about her now. Judy was not the only person who thought
her the fairest creature in the world.
While she was playing, and the influence of the music was more and more
filling her face, there came a shadow across the church door. The shadow
lengthened and grew longer, and the young man, whose smile Judy had
ignored, came softly across the church and up to Hilda's side.
"Go on playing," he said, nodding to her. "I have been waiting and
listening. I can wait and listen a little longer if you will allow me to
sit in the church."
"I shall have done in a moment," said Hilda. "I just want to choose
something for the final voluntary." She took up a book of lighter music
as she spoke, and selecting some of Haydn's sweet and gracious melodies,
began to play.
Judy stirred restlessly. Jasper Quentyns came closer, so close that his
shadow fell partly over the child as she lay on the ground, and quite
shut away the evening sunlight as it streamed over Hilda's figure.
Jasper was a musician himself, and he made comments which were listened
to attentively.
Hilda played the notes as he directed her. She brought added volume into
certain passages, she rendered the light staccato notes with precision.
"Oh, you are spoiling the playing," said Judy suddenly. She started up,
knitting her black brows and glaring angrily at Jasper Quentyns.
"You don't mean to say you are here all the time, you little puss," he
exclaimed. "I thought you and Miss Mills and Babs were miles away by
now. Why, what's the matter, child? Why do you frown at me as if I were
an ogre?"
Hilda put her arm round Judy's waist. The contact of Hilda's arm was
like balm to the child; she smiled and held out her hand penitently.
"Of course I don't think you are an ogre," she said, "but I do wish you
would let Hilda play her music her own way."
"Oh, don't talk nonsense, Judy," said Hilda; "you quite forget that Mr.
Quentyns knows a great deal more about music than I do."
"He doesn't play half nor quarter as well as you, for all that," replied
Judy, with emphasis.
Hilda bent forward and kissed her little sister on her forehead.
"We won't have any more music at present," she said, "it is time for us
to return to the house. You are going to dine at the Rectory this
evening, are you not, Mr. Quentyns?"
"If you will have me."
"Of course we shall all be delighted to have you."
"Hilda," said Judy, "do you know that Mildred Anstruther is down at the
house waiting to see you?"
A faint shadow of disappointment flitted across Hilda Merton's face--an
additional wave of color mounted to Jasper Quentyns' brow. He looked at
Hilda to see if she had noticed it; Hilda turned from him and began to
arrange her music.
"Come," she said, "we mustn't keep Mildred waiting."
"What has she come for?" asked Jasper, as the three walked down the
shady avenue.
"You know you are glad to see her," replied Hilda suddenly.
Something in her tone caused Jasper to laugh and raise his brows in
mock surprise. Judy looked eagerly from one face to the other. Her heart
began to beat with fierce dislike to Jasper. What right had he to
interfere with Hilda's music, and above all things, what right, pray,
had he to bring that tone, into Hilda's beloved voice?
Judy clasped her sister's arm with a tight pressure. In a few minutes
they reached the old-fashioned and cozy Rectory.
The Rector was pacing about in the pleasant evening sunshine, and
Mildred Anstruther was walking by his side and chatting to him.
"Oh, here you are," said Mildred, running up to her friend and greeting
her with affection; "and you have come too, Mr. Quentyns?--this is a
delightful surprise."
"You had better run into the house now, Judy," said Hilda. "Yes,
darling, go at once."
"May I come down after dinner to-night, Hilda?"
"You look rather pale, Judy, and as we are having friends to dinner it
may be best for you to go to bed early," said another voice. It
proceeded from the comfortable, good-natured mouth of Aunt Marjorie.
"No, no, Aunt Maggie, you won't send me to bed. Hilda, you'll plead for
me, won't you?" gasped Judy.
"I think she may come down just for half an hour, auntie," said Hilda,
smiling.
"Well, child, it must be as you please; of course we all know who spoils
Judy."
"Of course we all know who loves Judy," said Hilda. "Now are you
satisfied, my sweet? Run away; be the best of good children. Eat a
hearty tea; don't think of any trouble. Oh, Judy! what a frown you have
between your brows; let me kiss it away. I'll find you in the drawing
room after dinner."
"And you'll come and talk to me if only for one minute. Promise,
promise, Hilda!"
"Of course I promise; now run off."
Judy went slowly away. She thought the grown people very unkind to
dismiss her. She was interested in all people who were grown up; she had
not a great deal of sympathy with children--she felt that she did not
quite belong to them. The depths of her thoughts, the intense pathos of
her unsatisfied affections were incomprehensible to most children. Hilda
understood her perfectly, and even Aunt Marjorie and her father were
more agreeable companions than Miss Mills and Babs.
There was no help for it, however. Judy was a schoolroom child, and
back to the schoolroom and to Miss Mills' dull society she must go.
Swinging her hat on her arm she walked slowly down the long, cool stone
passage which led from the principal hall to the schoolroom regions. A
maidservant of the name of Susan hurried past her with the tray which
contained the schoolroom tea in her hands.
"You must be quick, Miss Judy, I am bringing in the tea," she said.
Judy frowned. She did not think it at all necessary for Susan to remind
her of her rather disagreeable duties. Instead of hurrying to the
schoolroom she stood still and looked out of one of the windows. The
words Miss Mills had uttered as they walked across the fields to the
wood kept returning to her memory. In some curious, undefined,
uncomfortable way she connected them with her sister Hilda. What did
they mean? Why was it dreadful to be engaged to be married? Why were
some people so fickle, and why were promises broken? Judy had never seen
Miss Mills so excited before.
"She looked quite interesting when she spoke in that voice," said Judy
to herself. "What did she mean? what could she mean? She said it was
dreadful to be married, and dreadful to be engaged. I think I'll go and
ask Mrs. Sutton. I don't care if I am a bit late for tea. The worst
Miss Mills will do is to give me some poetry to learn, and I like
learning poetry. Yes, I'll go and see Mrs. Sutton. She was married
twice, so she must have been engaged twice. She must know all--all about
it. She's a much better judge than Miss Mills, who never was married at
all."
Judy opened a baize door, which shut behind her with a bang. She went
down a few steps, and a moment later was standing in a comfortably
furnished sitting room which belonged to the housekeeper, Mrs. Sutton.
Mrs. Sutton was a stout, portly old lady. She had twinkling good-humored
eyes, a mouth which smiled whenever she looked at a child, and a
constant habit of putting her hand into her pocket and taking out a
lollipop. This lollipop found its way straight into the receptive mouth
of any small creature of the human race who came in her way.
"Is that you, Miss Judy?" she said now, turning round and setting down
her own cup of strong tea. "Come along, my pet, and give me a kiss. What
do you say to this?" She held a pink sugar-stick between her finger and
thumb. "I suppose you'll want another for Miss Babs, bless her!"
"Yes, thank you, Sutton," replied Judy. "Will you lay them on the
table, please, and I'll take them when I am going away. Sutton, I want
to talk to you about a _very_ private matter."
"Well, darling--bless your dear heart, your secrets are safe enough with
me."
"Oh, it isn't exactly a secret, Sutton--it is something I want to know.
Is it a dreadful thing to be engaged to be married?"
"Bless us and save us!" said Mrs. Sutton. She flopped down again on her
seat, and her red face grew purple. "Are you quite well, Miss Judy? You
haven't been reading naughty books now, that you shouldn't open? What
could put such thoughts into the head of a little miss like you?"
"Please answer me, Sutton, it is most important. Is it dreadful to be
engaged to be married? and are people fickle? and are promises broken?"
"But, my dear----"
"Will you answer me, dear, kind Sutton?"
"Well, Miss Judy, well--anything to please you, dearie--it all depends."
"What does it depend on?"
"Taken from the female point of view, it depends on the sort the young
man is; but, my darling, it's many and many a long day before you need
worrit yourself with such matters."
"But I want to know," persisted Judy. "People do get married. You were
married twice yourself, Sutton; you told me so once."
"So I was dear, and both my wedding gowns are in a trunk upstairs. My
first was a figured sateen, a buff-colored ground with red flowers
thrown over it. My second was a gray poplin. I was supposed to do very
well with my second marriage, Miss Judy."
"Then you were twice engaged, and twice married," said Judy. "I don't
want to hear about the wedding gowns, Sutton. I am rather in a hurry. I
want you to tell me about the other things. What were they like--the
being engaged, and the being married? Was the person fickle, and did he
break his promise?"
For some reason or other Mrs. Sutton's face became so deeply flushed
that she looked quite angry.
"I'll tell you what it is, Miss Judy," she said, "someone is putting
thoughts into your head what oughtn't to do it. You are a motherless
child, and there's someone filling your head with arrant nonsense. What
do you know about engagements and--and disappointments, and dreams what
proves but early mists of the morning? what do you know of fickleness
and broken promises? There, child, you won't get any of that bad sort of
knowledge out of me. Now you run away, dearie. There's someone been
talking about what they oughtn't to, and you has no call to listen, my
pet. There's some weddings happy, and there's some that aint, and that's
all I can say. Run away now, Miss Judy."