A QUESTION AND AN ANSWER.
When some beloved voice that was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence against which you dare not cry
Aches round you like a strong disease and new--
What hope? what help? what music will undo
That silence to your sense?
--E. BARRETT BROWNING.
Hilda Merton stood in a rather irresolute fashion in her bedroom.
Several people were coming to dine at the Rectory to-night, and she, as
the young mistress of the establishment, ought to be in the drawing room
even now, waiting to receive her guests. The Rector was a very wealthy
man, and all those luxuries surrounded Hilda which are the portion of
those who are gently nurtured and well-born. Her maid had left the room,
the young girl's simple white dress was arranged to perfection, her
lovely hair was coiled becomingly around her shapely head. She was
standing before her looking-glass, putting the final touches to her
toilet.
For some reason they took a long time to put. Hilda gazed into the
reflection of her own pretty face as if she saw it not. Her brown eyes
looked through the mirrored eyes in the glass with an almost abstracted
expression. Suddenly a smile flitted across her face.
"I'll do it," she exclaimed. "I'll wear his white rose. He may think
what he pleases. I--I do love him with all my heart and soul."
She blushed as she uttered these last words, and looked in a
half-frightened way across the room, as if by chance someone might have
overheard her.
The next moment the white rose was snugly peeping out from among the
coils of her rich hair. Her dress was fastened at the throat with a
pearl brooch. She was in simple white from top to toe.
"How late you are, Hilda," said Aunt Marjorie. "I was getting quite
nervous. You know I hate to be alone in the drawing room when our
visitors come; and really, my love, what a simple dress--nothing but a
washing muslin. Did not you hear your father say that the Dean and Mrs.
Sparks were coming to dinner to-night?"
"Of course I did, Aunt Marjorie. The cook also knows that the Dean is
coming to dine. Now don't fret, there's a dear. I look nice, don't I?
that's the main thing."
"Yes, Hilda, you look beautiful," said Aunt Marjorie solemnly; "but
after all, when you have a new pink chiffon and--and----"
"Hush, auntie dear, I see the Dean stepping out of his brougham."
The other guests followed the Dean and Mrs. Sparks almost immediately.
Dinner was announced, and the party withdrew to the dining room.
Hilda, in her white dress with her happy sunshiny face, was the
principal object of attraction at this dinner. There were two or three
young men present, and they looked at her a good deal. Jasper Quentyns
favored her with one quick glance; he was sitting at the far end of the
table, and a very pretty girl was placed at his side. He saw the rose in
Hilda's hair, and his heart beat quickly; his spirits rose several
degrees, and he became so delightful and communicative to his neighbor
that she thought him quite the pleasantest and handsomest man she had
ever met.
Quentyns did not glance again at Hilda. He was satisfied, for he felt
pretty sure that a certain question which he meant to ask would be
answered in the way he wished.
The dinner came to an end, and the ladies withdrew into the drawing
room. Two little figures in white dresses were waiting to receive them.
Babs trotted everywhere, and was universally admired, petted, and
praised. Judy stood in the shadow behind one of the curtains and watched
Hilda.
"Come out, Judy, and be sociable," said her sister.
"I don't want to talk. I am so happy here, Hilda," she replied.
"I do like spiders when they are very, very fat," sounded Babs' voice
across the room.
"Oh, you droll little creature!" exclaimed a lady who sat near; "why, I
should fly from a spider any distance."
"Perhaps you like earwigs better," said Babs.
"Earwigs, they are horrors; oh, you quaint, quaint little soul."
Babs did not care to be called a quaint little soul. She trotted across
the room and stood by Judy's side.
"There's nobody at all funny here," she said in a whisper. "I wish I had
my Kitty Tiddliwinks to play with; I don't care for fine ladies."
"It is time for you to go to bed, Babs," said Judy.
"No, it isn't. I am not going before you go. You always talk as if I
were a baby, and I aren't. Judy, you might tell me now what it is to be
engaged to be married."
"No, I can't tell you now," said Judy; "the gentlemen are coming in, and
we mustn't talk and interrupt. If you won't go to bed you must stay
quiet. You know if Aunt Marjorie sees you she'll send you off at once;
now they are going to sing; ah, that'll be jolly. You stay quiet, Babs,
and listen."
Four young men surrounded the piano. Jasper Quentyns was one; Hilda
played the accompaniment. The four voices did ample justice to the
beautiful glee--"Men were deceivers ever." The well-known words were
applauded vigorously, the applause rose to an encore. Judy listened as
if fascinated.
"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go ..."
"Yes, that's the right thing to do," said Judy, turning round and fixing
her bright eyes on Babs.
"How funny you look," said Babs; "_you_ ought to go to bed."
"Come, Barbara, what is this about?" said Aunt Marjorie's voice. "You
up still--what can Miss Mills be thinking of? Now, little girls, it is
nine o'clock, and you must both go away. Good-night, Babs dear;
good-night, Judy."
"Mayn't I say good-night to Hilda?" whispered Judy.
"No, she's busy; run away this moment. Judy, if you question me I shall
have to appeal to your father. Now, my loves, go."
The little girls left the room, Babs complacently enough, Judy
unwillingly. Babs was sleepy, and was very glad to lay her little head
on her white pillow; but sleep was very far away from Judy's eyes.
The little girls' bedroom was over a portion of the drawing room. They
could hear the waves of the music and the light conversation and the gay
laughter as they lay in their cots. The sounds soon mingled with Babs'
dreams, but Judy felt more restless and less sleepy each moment.
Miss Mills had entire care of the children. She dressed them and
undressed them as well as taught them. She had left them now for the
night. Miss Mills at this moment was writing an indignant letter in
reply to the one which had so excited her feelings this morning. Her
schoolroom was far away. Judy knew that she was safe. If she got out of
bed, no one would hear her. In her little white night-dress she stole
across the moonlit floor and crept up to the window. She softly
unfastened the hasp and flung the window open. She could see down into
the garden, and could almost hear the words spoken in the drawing room.
Two figures had stepped out of the conservatory and side by side were
walking across the silvered lawn.
Judy's heart beat with great thumps--one of these people was her sister
Hilda, the other was Jasper Quentyns. They walked side by side, keeping
close to one another. Their movements were very slow, they were talking
almost in whispers. Hilda's head only reached to Jasper's shoulder; he
was bending down over her. Presently he took her hand. Judy felt as if
she should scream.
"He's a horrid, horrid, wicked man," she said under her breath; "he's a
deceiver. 'Men were deceivers ever.' I know what he is. Oh, what shall I
do? what shall I do? Oh, Hilda, oh, Hilda, darling, you shan't go
through the misery of being engaged and then being married. Oh, oh, what
shall I do to save you, Hilda?"
Quentyns and Hilda were standing still. They had moved out of the line
of light which streamed from the drawing room, and were standing under
the shadow of a great beech tree. Judy felt that she could almost hear
their words. From where she leant out of the window she could certainly
see their actions. Quentyns stooped suddenly and kissed Hilda on her
forehead; Hilda looked up at him and laid both her hands in his. He
folded them in a firm pressure, and again stooping, kissed her twice.
Upstairs in the nursery, misery was filling one little heart to the
brim. A sob caught Judy's breath--she felt as if she should choke. She
dared not look any more, but drawing down the blind, crept back into bed
and covered her head with the bed-clothes.
In the drawing room the guests stopped on, and never missed the two who
had stolen away across the moonlit lawn. One girl, it is true, might
have been noticed to cast some anxious glances toward the open window,
and the companion who talked to her could not help observing that she
scarcely replied to his remarks, and was not fully alive to his
witticisms; but the rest of the little world jogged on its way merrily
enough, unconscious of the Paradise which was so close to them in the
Rectory garden, and of the Purgatory which one little soul was enduring
upstairs.
"Hilda," said Quentyns, when they had stood for some time under the
beech tree, and had said many things each to the other, and felt a great
deal more than could ever be put into words. "Hilda," said Quentyns, and
all the poetry of the lovely summer evening seemed to have got into his
eyes and filled his voice, "I give you all, remember, all that a man can
give. I give you the love of my entire heart. My present is yours, my
future is to be yours. I live for you, Hilda--I shall always live for
you. Think what that means."
"I can quite understand it," replied Hilda, "for I also live for you. I
am yours, Jasper, for now and always."
"And I am a very jealous man," said Quentyns. "When I give all, I like
to get all."
Hilda laughed.
"How solemnly you speak," she said, stepping back a pace, and an almost
imperceptible jar coming into her voice. Then she came close again. "The
fault you will have to find with me is this, Jasper," she said, looking
fully at him with her sweet eyes; "I shall love you, if anything, too
well. No one can ever come between us, unless it is dear little Judy."
"Judy! Don't you think you make too much fuss about that child? She is
such a morbid little piece of humanity."
"Not a bit of it. You don't quite understand her. She and I are much
more than ordinary sisters to each other. I feel as if I were in a
certain sense Judy's mother. When mother died she left Judy to me.
Little darling! No one ever had a more faithful or a nobler heart. You
must get fond of her too, for my sake; won't you, Jasper?"
"I'll do anything for your sake, you know that, Hilda. But don't let us
talk of Judy any more just now--let us----"
"Mr. Quentyns, is that your voice I hear?" called Aunt Marjorie, from
the drawing room. "And, Hilda, ought you to be out with the dew falling
so heavily?"