IN A GARDEN.
I go like one in a dream, unbidden my feet know the way,
To that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and
white hawthorn of May.
--MATHILDE BLIND.
Aunt Marjorie had cried until she could cry no longer. Hers was a
slighter nature than either Mr. Merton's or Hilda's. In consequence,
perhaps, she was able to realize the blow which had come upon them more
vividly and more quickly than either her brother or niece.
Aunt Marjorie had taken a great pride in the pretty, well-ordered house.
She was a capable, a kind, and a considerate mistress. Her servants
worked well under her guidance. She was set in authority over them; they
liked her rule, and acknowledged it with cheerful and willing service.
No one could give such perfect little dinner-parties as Aunt Marjorie.
She had a knack of finding out each of her guests' particular weaknesses
with regard to the dinner-table. She was no diplomatist, and her
conversation was considered prosy; but with Mr. Merton to act the
perfect host and to lead the conversation into the newest intellectual
channels, with Hilda to look sweet and gracious and beautiful, and with
Aunt Marjorie to provide the dinner, nothing could have been a greater
success than the little party which took place on an average once a week
at the sociable Rectory.
Now all these things were at an end. The servants must go; the large
house--which had been added to from time to time by the Rector until it
had lost all similitude to the ordinary small and cozy Rectory--the
great house must remain either partly shut up or only half cleaned.
There must be no more dinner-parties, and no nice carriage for Aunt
Marjorie to return calls in. The vineries and conservatories must remain
unheated during the winter; the gardeners must depart. Weeds must grow
instead of flowers.
Alack, and alas! Aunt Marjorie felt like a shipwrecked mariner, as she
sat now in the lovely drawing room and looked out over the summer scene.
With her mind's eye she was gazing at something totally different--she
was seeing the beautiful place as it would look in six months' time; she
saw with disgust the rank and obnoxious weeds, the empty grate, the
dust-covered ornaments.
"It is worse for us than it would be for ordinary people," she said half
aloud. "If we were just ordinary people, we could leave here and go into
a tiny cottage where our surroundings would be in keeping with our
means; but of course the Rector must live in the Rectory--at least I
suppose so. Dear, dear! how sudden this visitation has been--truly may
it be said that 'all flesh is grass.'"
Aunt Marjorie had a way of quoting sentences which did not at all apply
to the occasion; these quotations always pleased her, however, and a
slow smile now played round her lips.
The drawing-room door was opened noisily, and a fat little figure rushed
across the room and sprang into her arms.
"Is that you, Babs?" she said. She cuddled the child in a close embrace,
and kissed her smooth, cool cheek many times.
"Yes, of course it's me," said Babs, in her matter-of-fact voice. "Your
eyes are quite red, Auntie. Have you been crying?"
"We have had dreadful trouble, my darling--poor Auntie feels very
miserable--it is about father. Your dear father has lost all his money,
my child."
"Miss Mills told me that half an hour ago," said Babs; "that's why I
wanted to see you, Auntie. I has got half a sovereign in the Savings
Bank. I'll give it to father if he wants it."
"You're a little darling," said Aunt Marjorie, kissing her again.
"There's Judy going across the garden," said Babs. "Look at her, she has
her shoulders hunched up to her ears. She's not a bit of good; she won't
play with me nor nothing."
"That child doesn't look at all well," said Aunt Marjorie.
She started to her feet, putting Babs on the floor. A new anxiety and a
new interest absorbed her mind.
"Judy, Judy," she called; "come here, child. I have noticed for the last
week," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "that Judy has black lines
under her eyes, and a dragged sort of look about her. What can it mean?"
"She cries such a lot," said Babs in her untroubled voice. "I hear her
when she's in bed at night. I thought she had she-cups, but it wasn't,
it was sobs."
"_She-cups_--what do you mean, child? Judy, come here, darling."
"She-cups," repeated Babs. "Some people call them he-cups; but I don't
when a girl has them."
Judy came slowly up to the window.
"Where were you going, my pet?" asked Aunt Marjorie.
"Only for a walk," she answered.
"A walk all by yourself? How pale you are, dearie. Have you a headache?"
"No, Auntie."
Aunt Marjorie pulled Judy forward. She felt her forehead and looked at
her tongue, and put her in such a position that she could gaze down into
her throat.
Not being able to detect anything the matter, she thought it best to
scold her niece a little.
"Little girls oughtn't to walk slowly and to be dismal," she said. "It
is very wrong and ungrateful of them. They ought to run about and skip
and laugh. Work while you work, and play while you play. That was the
motto when I was a little girl. Now, Judy, love, go out with Babs and
have a good romp. You had better both of you go to the hay-field, for it
might distract your poor father to hear your two merry voices. Run, my
dears, run; make yourselves scarce."
"Come, Babs," said Judy. She held out her hand to her little sister,
and the two went away together.
"Do you know, Judy," said Babs, the moment they were out of Aunt
Marjorie's hearing, "that I saw a quarter of an hour ago a great big
spider in the garden catching a wasp. He rolled the poor wasp round and
round with his web until he made him into a ball."
"And did you leave that poor wasp to die?" asked Judy, keen interest and
keen anger coming into her voice.
"No, I didn't," said Babs. "I took him away from the spider. I wouldn't
be kite so cruel as to let the poor thing die; but I s'pect he'll die
all the same, for he can't get out of the ball that he's in."
"Poor darling!" said Judy. "Let's go and find him and try to get the web
off him. Do you know where he is, Babs?"
"I put him on an ivy leaf on the ground," said Babs, "under the yew-tree
down there. I can find him in a minute."
"Well, let's go and save him as quickly as possible."
The two children rushed with eagerness and vigor down the slops.
Aunt Marjorie could see them as they disappeared out of sight.
She turned to weep and bewail herself once more, and Judy and Babs
began industriously to look for the wasp.
They were busily engaged on their hands and knees searching all over the
ground for the identical ivy leaf where Babs had placed the rescued
insect, when a voice sounded in their ears, and Judy raised her head to
see pretty Mildred Anstruther standing by her side.
Mildred was one of the belles of the county; her hair was as bright as a
sunbeam, her eyes as blue as a summer sky, her full lips were red, her
cheeks had the bloom of the peach upon them. Mildred was a well-grown
girl, with a largely and yet gracefully developed figure.
In addition to her personal charms she had a considerable fortune. It
went without saying, therefore, that she was greatly admired.
Mildred had often been the talk of Little Staunton; her numerous
flirtations had caused head-shakings and dismal croaks from many of the
old maids of the neighborhood. The sterner sex had owned to
heart-burnings in connection with her, for Mildred could flirt and
receive any amount of attention without giving her heart in return. She
was wont to laugh at love affairs, and had often told Hilda that the
prince to whom alone she would give her affections was scarcely likely
to appear.
"The time when gods used to walk upon the earth is over, my dear Hilda,"
she used to say. "When I find the perfect man, I will marry him, but not
before."
Mildred, who was twenty-six years of age, had therefore the youngest and
smoothest of faces; care had never touched her life, and wrinkles were
unlikely to visit her.
For some reason, however, she looked careworn now, and Judy, with a
child's quick perception, noticed it.
She was fond of Mildred, and she put up her lips for a kiss.
"What's the matter, Milly?" she asked; "have you a cold?"
"No, my love; on principle I never allow myself to have anything so
silly; but I am shocked, Judy--shocked at what I have read in the
morning papers."
"Oh, about our money," replied Judy in an unconcerned voice. "Have you
found that wasp, Babs? Are you looking on _all_ the ivy leaves?"
"I picked an ivy leaf, and put it down just here," replied Babs, "and I
put the wasp in it most carefully; the wind must have caught it and
blown it away."
"Oh, dear; oh, dear! the poor creature, what will become of it?"
answered Judy. She was down on her hands and knees again, poking and
examining, but poking and examining in vain.
"It's very rude of you, Judy, not to pay me the least attention," said
Mildred. "I have come over on purpose to see you, and there you are
squatting on the ground, pushing all that rubbish about. You have no
manners, and I'll tell Hilda so; and, Babs, what are you about not to
give me a hug?"
[Illustration: "I HAVE COME ON PURPOSE TO SEE YOU, JUDY." P. 60.]
Babs raised a somewhat grimy little face.
"We can't find the poor wasp," she said. "He was rolled up in the
spider's web, and I put him on an ivy leaf, and now he's gone."
"You had better go on looking for him, Babs," said Judy, "and I'll talk
to Milly." She rose as she spoke and placed her dirty little hand on
Miss Anstruther's arm. "So you heard about our money, Milly?" she said.
"Aunt Marjorie is in an awful state, she has cried and cried and cried;
but the rest of us don't care."
"You don't care? Oh, you queer, queer people! You don't mean to tell me,
little Judy, that Hilda doesn't care?"
"Hilda cares the least of all," replied Judy; "she has got Jasper."
Judy's face clouded over as she spoke.
"I wonder what _he'll_ say to this business," remarked Miss Anstruther,
half to herself; "he's not at all well off--it ought to make a
tremendous difference to him."
"He certainly isn't to be pitied," said Judy; "he's going to get Hilda."
"And what about Hilda's money?" laughed Miss Anstruther. Her face wore
an expression which was almost disagreeable, her big blue eyes looked
dark as they gazed at the child.
Judy's own little face turned pale. She didn't understand Miss
Anstruther, but something impelled her to say with great fierceness:
"I hate Jasper!"
Miss Anstruther stooped down and kissed her.
"You are a queer, passionate little thing, Judy," she said, "but it's a
very good thing for Hilda to be engaged to a nice sensible fellow like
Jasper Quentyns, and of course it is more important now than ever for
her. He'll be disappointed, of course, but I dare say they can get along
somehow. Ah, there's Aunt Marjorie coming out of the house. I must run
and speak to her, poor dear; how troubled she looks! and no wonder."
Mildred ran off, and Judy stood where she had left her, in the center of
the lawn, quivering all over.
What did Milly mean by saying that Jasper would be disappointed--Jasper,
who was going to get Hilda--Hilda herself? What could anyone want more
than the sun? what could any man desire more than the queen of all
queens, the rose of all roses?
Thoughts like these flitted through little Judy's mind in confused
fashion. Hilda was to be married to Jasper, and the Rectory of Little
Staunton would know her no more. That indeed was a sorrow to make
everyone turn sick and pale, but the loss of the money was not worth a
moment's consideration.
Judy wandered about, too restless and unhappy to settle to her play.
Babs shouted in the distance that the wasp was not to be seen. Even the
fate of the poor wasp scarcely interested Judy at present. She was
watching for Mildred to reappear that she might join her in the avenue
and ask why she dared to say those words about Jasper.
"Well, Judy," said Miss Anstruther by and by, "here I am, back at last.
I saw Aunt Marjorie, but I didn't see the Rector, and I didn't see
Hilda. Aunt Marjorie tells me that Jasper Quentyns is coming down
to-night, so I suppose he's going to take everything all right."
"What do you mean, Milly?" asked Judy.
"Why do you look at me in that fierce way, you small atom?" answered
Mildred, stopping in her walk and looking at the child with an amused
smile on her face.
"Because I don't understand you," said Judy.
"It is scarcely likely you should, my darling. Let me see, how old are
you--nine? Well, you'll know something of what I mean when you're
nineteen. Now I must go."
"No, stop a bit, Milly. I don't understand you, but I hate hints. Miss
Mills hints things sometimes, and oh, how I detest her when she does!
and you're hinting now, and it is something against Hilda."
"Against Hilda? Oh, good gracious, child, what an awful cram!"
"It isn't a cram, it is true. I can't explain it, but I know you're
hinting something against darling Hilda. Why should you say that Jasper
will be disappointed? Isn't she going away with him some day? and aren't
they going to live in--in a horrid--a horrid _flat_ together, and she
won't even have a garden, nor fowls, nor flowers? And you say Jasper
will be disappointed. Everything is going when Hilda goes, and you speak
as if Jasper wasn't the very luckiest person in all the wide world. _I_
know what it means; yes, I know. Oh, Milly, I'm so unhappy. Oh, Milly,
what _shall_ I do when Hilda goes away?"
Mildred was impulsive and kind-hearted, notwithstanding the very decided
fit of jealousy which was now over her. She put her arm round Judy and
tried to comfort her.
"You poor little thing," she said, "you poor little jealous, miserable
mite. How could you think you were going to keep your Hilda always?
There, Judy, there, darling, I really am sorry for you--I really am, but
you know Hilda is pretty and sweet, and someone wants her to make
another home beautiful. There, I'll say something to comfort you--I'll
eat all the words I have already uttered, and tell you emphatically from
my heart of hearts that Hilda is too good for Jasper Quentyns."
"Judy, Judy, Judy! I have found the wasp," shouted Babs.
Judy dried her eyes hastily, kissed Mildred, and ran across the lawn to
her little sister.
"What a queer child Judy Merton is," said Mildred to herself. "What
tempestuous little creatures some children are. How passionately she
spoke about Hilda, and now her whole heart and soul are devoted to the
rescuing of a miserable insect. Yes, of course Jasper is not good enough
for Hilda. He has plenty of faults, he is not the prince I have been
looking for, and yet--and yet----"
Her heart beat quickly, the color rushed into her face, she felt her
firm lips tremble, and knew that her eyes were shining with unusual
brilliance. Someone was coming along the path to meet her. A man with
the sunlight shining all over him--an athletic figure, who walked with
the swift bounding step of youth. He was Jasper Quentyns.
"Hullo!" he called, catching sight of her. "I was fortunate in getting
an earlier train than I had hoped for, and here I am two hours before I
was expected. How is Hilda? Have you been at the house? Are they all
fearfully cut up?"
"How do you do, Mr. Quentyns?" replied Mildred. "Yes, I have been at the
house, and I have seen Judy and Aunt Marjorie. Judy seems to me to be in
a very excitable and feverish state of mind."
"She's rather spoilt, isn't she?" said Quentyns.
"Oh, well, she's Hilda's special darling, the first in her heart by
many degrees--after--after somebody else."
"But how could a child like Judy know anything about money loss?"
"It isn't the money that's troubling her at the present moment, it's a
poor wasp. Now pray don't look so bewildered, and do try and forget
about Judy. Aunt Marjorie is taking her trouble in a thoroughly
practical and Aunt Marjorie style. I have not seen Hilda, nor have I
seen the Rector."
"It will be an awful blow to them all," said Quentyns.
"Yes," replied Miss Anstruther, looking him straight in the eyes, "an
awful blow. And you feel it far more than Hilda," she soliloquized, as
she walked back to her own home.