HONEYMOON.
The night is in her hair
And giveth shade for shade,
And the pale moonlight on her forehead white
Like a spirit's hand is laid;
Her lips part with a smile
Instead of speakings done:
I ween, she thinketh of a voice,
Albeit uttering none.
--MRS. BARRETT BROWNING.
A month later Mrs. Quentyns was sitting in one of the largest hotels at
Rome waiting for her husband to come in. The day was so balmy and genial
that it was almost impossible for Hilda to believe that the time of year
was early February. Dressed in dark-green velvet, with a creamy feather
boa lying by her side, Hilda sat amidst all her unaccustomed
surroundings, her eyes looking straight down the lofty room and her
thoughts far away. The bride was thinking of her English home--she was
an intensely happy bride--she loved her husband devotedly--she looked
forward to a good and blessed life by his side, but still (and to her
credit be it spoken) she could not forget old times. In the Rectory
gardens now the crocuses and snowdrops were putting out their first
dark-green leaves, and showing their tender petals to the faint winter
sunshine. Judy and Babs, wrapped in furs from top to toe, were taking
their afternoon walk--Babs was looking in vain for insect life in the
hedges, and Judy was opening her big eyes wide to see the first green
bud that ventured to put out its little tip to be greeted by the winter
cold. Aunt Marjorie was learning to make use of her legs, and was
glowing with warmth of body and vexation of spirit. The Rector was
tranquilly writing a sermon which, notwithstanding its polished diction,
should yet show the workings of a new spirit which would move his
congregation on Sunday.
Hilda seemed to see the whole picture--but her mind's eye rested longest
on the figure of the tall, rather overgrown child, whose eyes always
wore too hungry an expression for perfect happiness.
"Little darling," murmured Hilda, "how I wish I had her with me
here--she'd appreciate things so wonderfully. It is the greatest treat
in the world to take Judy to see a really good picture--how her eyes
shine in her dear face when she looks at it. My sweet little Judy,
Jasper does not care for me to talk much to you, but I love you with all
my heart and soul; it is the one drawback to my perfect happiness that I
must be parted from you."
Hilda rose as she spoke, and going over to a table on which her
traveling-bag stood, opened it, pressed the spring on a certain lock,
and taking out a little crumpled, stained letter, read the words written
on it.
"My darling Hilda [wrote the poor little scribe], this is to say
that I love you better than anyone else in the world. I'll
always go on loving you best of all. Please take a thousand
million kisses, and never forget Judy.
"P. S.--I'll pray for you every day and every night. I hope you
will be very happy. I won't fret if you don't. This letter is
packed with love.
"JUDY."
A step was heard along the passage; Hilda folded up the letter, slipped
it back into its hiding place, and ran down the long room to meet her
husband.
"Well, my darling," he exclaimed; "the English mail has just come in,
and here's a budget for you."
"And a budget for you too, Jasper. What a heap of letters!"
"Yes, and one of them is from Rivers. He rather wants me in London:
there's a good case coming on at the Law Courts; he says I shall be
counsel for it if I'm in town. What do you say to coming back to London
on Saturday, Hilda?"
"You know I shall be only too delighted; I am just pining to be home
again. Do you think we could go down to the Rectory? I should so like to
spend Sunday there."
"My darling, what are you thinking of? I want to be in London, not in
Hampshire. Now that I have got you, sweetheart, I must neglect no chance
of work."
Hilda's face turned slightly pale.
"Of course, darling," she said, looking up sweetly at her tall husband;
"but where are we to go on Saturday night? You spoke of going home."
"And so we are going home, my love--or rather we are going toward home;
but as we have not taken a house yet, we must spend a week with the
Malverns when first we get to England. I will send a line to my aunt,
and tell her to expect us on Saturday."
Hilda said nothing more. She smothered the ghost of a sigh, and sitting
down by the wood fire, which, notwithstanding the genial weather, was
acceptable enough in their lofty room, began to open her letters. The
Rectory budget was of course first attended to. It contained several
inclosures--one from her father, which was short and principally
occupied over a review of the last new theological book he had been
reading, one from Aunt Marjorie, and one from Miss Mills.
"None from Judy," said Hilda, in a voice of surprise; "she has only
written to me once since we were married."
She spoke aloud, and looked up at her husband for sympathy. He was
reading a letter of his own, and its contents seemed to amuse him, for
he broke into a hearty laugh.
"What is it, Jasper?" asked Hilda. "What is amusing you?"
"Something Rivers has said, my love. I'll tell you presently. Capital
fellow he is; if I get this brief I shall be in tremendous luck."
Hilda opened Aunt Marjorie's letter and began to read. The old lady was
a somewhat rambling correspondent. Her letters were always closely
written and voluminous. Hilda had to strain her young eyes to decipher
all the sentences.
"I must say I dislike poverty [wrote Aunt Marjorie]; you are
well out of it, Hilda. It is my private conviction that your
father has absolutely forgotten that his income has jumped down
in a single day from three thousand three hundred and fifty
pounds a year to the three hundred and fifty without the odd
thousands; he goes on just as he has always done, and is
perfectly happy. Dean Sharp sent him his last book a week ago,
and he has done nothing but read it and talk of it ever
since--his conversation in consequence is most tiresome. I miss
you awfully, my love. I never could stand theology, even when I
was surrounded by comforts, and now when I have to stint the
fires and suffer from cold feet, you may imagine how unpleasant
it is to me. My dear Hilda, I am afraid I shall not be able to
keep Miss Mills, she seems to get sillier every day; it is my
private conviction that she has a love affair on, but she's as
mum as possible about it. Poor Sutton cried in a most
heartrending way when she left; she said when leaving, 'I'll
never get another mistress like you, ma'am, for you never
interfere, even to the clearing of the jellies.' I am glad she
appreciates me, I didn't think she did while she was living with
us. The new cook can't attempt anything in the way of soup, so
I have given it up for dinner; but your father never appears to
miss it. The garden is looking horrible, so many weeds about.
The Anstruthers have all gone up to London--taken a house for
the season at an enormous price. How those people do squander
money; may they never know what it is for it to take to itself
wings!
"By the way, Judy has not been well; she caught cold or
something the day of your wedding, and was laid up with a nasty
little feverish attack and cough. We had to send for Dr. Harvey,
who said she had a chill, and was a good deal run down. She's up
again now, but looks like a ghost with her big eyes. She
certainly is a most peculiar child--I don't pretend to
understand her. She crept into the room a minute ago, and I told
her I was writing to you, and asked her if she had any message.
She got pink all over just as if she were going to cry, and then
said:
"'Tell Hilda that I am not fretting a bit, that I am as happy as
possible. Give her my dear love and heaps of kisses' (my dear
Hilda, you must take them for granted, for I am not going to put
crosses all over the letter).
"Then she ran out of the room as if she had nothing further to
say--really a most queer child. Babs is a little treasure and
the comfort of my life.
"Your affectionate old Aunt,
"MARJORIE."
"Jasper!" said Hilda, in a choked sort of voice. "Jasper!"
"What is it, my darling? Why, how queer you look, your face is quite
white!"
"It is about Judy; she's not well!" said Hilda. "I ought to go to her, I
ought not to delay. Couldn't we catch the night mail?"
"Good gracious!" said Quentyns, alarmed by Hilda's manner. "What is
wrong with the child? If it is anything infectious----"
"No, no, it is nothing of that sort; but in any case, whatever it is, I
ought to go to her--I ought not to delay. May I telegraph to say we are
starting at once?"
"My darling, how excitable you are! What can be wrong with the child?"
"Oh, Jasper, you don't understand--Aunt Marjorie says----Here, read
this bit."
"I can't read that crabbed, crossed writing, Hilda."
"Well, I'll read it aloud to you; see where it begins--'Judy has not
been well----'"
Hilda read the whole passage, a lump in her throat almost choking her
voice. When she had finished, Quentyns put his arms round her and drew
her to his heart.
"Why, you poor little, foolish, nervous creature," he said, "there's
nothing wrong with Judy now; she was ill, but she's much better. My
darling Hilda--my love, you must really not disturb yourself about a
trifling mishap of this sort."
"It isn't a trifle, Jasper. Oh, I know Judy--I know how she looks and
what she feels. Oh, do, do let me go back to her, darling."
"You read that letter in such a perturbed sort of voice that I can
scarcely follow its meanings," said Quentyns. "Here, give it to me, and
let me see for myself what it is all about. Why will old ladies write
such villainous hands? Where does the passage begin, Hilda? Sit down,
darling, quiet yourself. Now let me see, here it is--'Judy has not been
well----'"
Hilda's hands had shaken with nervousness while she read her aunt's
letter aloud, but Quentyns held the sheet of thin paper steadily. As the
sentences fell from his lips, his full tones seemed to put new meaning
into them--the ghostly terrors died out of Hilda's heart. When her
husband laid down the sheet of paper, and turned to her with a
triumphant smile, she could not help smiling back at him in return.
"There," he said, "did not I tell you there was nothing wrong with Judy
now? What a little goose you are!"
"I suppose I am; and if you really, really think--if you are quite sure
that she's all right----"
"Of course, I am absolutely certain; doesn't Aunt Marjorie say so? The
fact is, Hilda, you make too great a fuss about that little sister of
yours--I feel almost jealous of her."