STARVED.
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss?
--E. BARRETT BROWNING.
In the first pleasant spring-time of that same year, Mrs. Anstruther, a
very gay and fashionable-looking woman of between forty and fifty years
of age, turned on a certain morning to her daughter and made a remark:
"Don't forget that we must pay some calls this afternoon, Mildred."
Mildred was standing by the window of their beautiful drawing room. The
window-boxes had just been filled with lovely spring flowers; she was
bending over them and with deft fingers arranging the blossoms and
making certain small alterations, which had the effect of grouping the
different masses of color more artistically than the gardener had done.
"Yes, mother," she said, half turning her handsome head and glancing
back at her parent. "We are to make calls. I am quite agreeable."
"I wish you would take an interest, Mildred; it is so unpleasant going
about with people who are only just 'quite agreeable.' Now, when I was a
young girl----"
"Oh, please, mother, don't! The times have completely changed since you
were young; enthusiasm has gone out of fashion. I am nothing if I am not
fashionable! Of course, if calls have to be made, I shall make them.
I'll put on my most becoming bonnet, and my prettiest costume, and I'll
sit in the carriage by your side, and enter the houses of those friends
who happen to be at home, and I'll smile and look agreeable, and people
will say, 'What an amiable woman Miss Anstruther is!' I'll do the
correct thing of _course_, only I suppose it is not necessary for my
heart to go pitter-patter over it. By the way, have you made out a list
of the unfortunates who are to be victimized by our presence this
afternoon?"
Mrs. Anstruther sighed, and gazed in some discontent at her daughter.
"It is so disagreeable not to understand people," she said. "I don't
profess to understand you, Mildred. If you will give me my visiting-book
I can soon tell you the places where we ought to go. And oh, by the way,
should we not call on Hilda Quentyns? she has taken a house somewhere in
West Kensington."
"You don't mean to tell me that the Quentyns are in town?" said
Mildred, turning sharply round and gazing at her mother.
"Of course; they have been in London for some time. I met Lady Malvern
yesterday, and she gave me Hilda's address. She seems to have gone to
live in a very poky place. See, I have entered the name in my
address-book--10, Philippa Road, West Kensington."
"Then of course we'll go to her--that will be _really_ nice," said
Mildred with enthusiasm. "We might go to Hilda first and spend some
little time with her."
"But Mrs. Milward's 'at home' begins quite early. I should not like to
miss that."
"Who cares for Mrs. Milward! Look here, mother, suppose _you_ pay the
calls and let me go and see Hilda. I have a good deal I want to talk
over with her; for one thing, I want to say something about Judy."
"Poor, queer little Judy," said Mrs. Anstruther with a laugh. "What can
you possibly have to say about her?"
"I don't think Judy is at all well," said Mildred. "There is such a
thing as dying of heart-hunger. If ever a child suffered from that
old-fashioned complaint, it is that poor mite at Little Staunton
Rectory."
"My dear Mildred, you get more absurd every day. Judy lives in a most
comfortable home, for notwithstanding their poverty, old Aunt Marjorie
manages to keep everything going in really respectable style. The child
has a loving father, a devoted aunt, a dear little sister, and an
excellent governess, and you talk of her dying of heart-hunger! It is
absurd."
"Nevertheless," said Mildred,--she stopped abruptly, her bright eyes
looked across the room and out through the open window,--"nevertheless,"
she said, giving her foot an impatient tap, "I should like to see Hilda.
I should like to have a long talk with her. I have heard nothing about
her since her wedding, so by your leave, mother, I'll drive over to West
Kensington immediately after lunch and send the victoria back for you."
Mrs. Anstruther, who was always more or less like wax in the hands of
her strong-minded daughter, was obliged somewhat unwillingly to submit
to this arrangement; and Mildred, charmingly dressed and looking young
and lovely, was bowled rapidly away in the direction of Hilda Quentyns'
humble home soon after two o'clock.
"It will be pleasant to take the poor old dear by surprise," said
Mildred to herself. "There was a time when I felt jealous of her good
fortune in having secured Jasper Quentyns, but, thank goodness, I have
quite got over the assaults of the green-eyed monster now. Ah, here we
are. What a queer little street!--what frightfully new and yet
picturesque houses! They look like dove-cotes. I wonder if this pair of
turtle-doves coo in their nest all day long."
The footman jumped down and rang the doorbell. In a moment a
neatly-dressed but very young looking servant stood in the open doorway.
"Yes, Mrs. Quentyns was at home," she said, and Mildred entered Hilda's
pretty house.
She went into the drawing room, and stood somewhat impatiently waiting
for her hostess to appear. The little room was furnished with an eye to
artistic effect, the walls were decorated with good taste. The furniture
was new, as well as pretty. One beautiful photogravure from Burne Jones'
"Wheel of Fortune" was hung over the mantelpiece. Hilda and Quentyns,
faithfully represented by an Italian photographer, stood side by side in
a little frame on one of the brackets. Mildred felt herself drawing one
or two heavy sighs.
"I don't know what there is about this little room, but I like it," she
murmured; "nay, more, I love it. I can fancy good people inhabiting it.
I am quite certain that Love has not yet flown out of the window. I am
quite sure, too, of another thing, that even if Poverty does come in at
this door, Love will remain. Oh, silly Hilda, what have you to do with
the 'Wheel of Fortune'? your position is assured; you dwell safely
enthroned in the heart of a good man. Oh, happy Hilda!"
The door was opened, and Hilda Quentyns smiling, with roses on her
cheeks and words of delighted welcome on her lips, rushed into the room.
"How sweet of you to call, Mildred," she exclaimed. "I was just
wondering if you would take any notice of me."
"You dear creature," said Mildred, kissing Hilda and patting her on the
shoulder. "Two hours ago I heard for the first time that you were in
London. I ate my lunch and ordered the victoria, and put on my prettiest
bonnet and drove over to see you as fast as ever the horses would bring
me. I could not well pay my respects to Mrs. Quentyns in a shorter
time."
"I am very glad to see you," said Hilda.
"How childish you look," replied Mildred, gazing at her in a rather
dissatisfied way; "you have no responsibilities at all now, your Jasper
takes the weight of everything, and you live in perpetual sunshine. Is
the state of bliss as blissful as we have always been led to imagine,
Hilda, or are the fairy tales untrue, and does the prince only exist in
one's imagination?"
"Oh, no, he is real, quite real," said Hilda. "I am as happy as it is
possible for a human being to be. Jasper--but I won't talk of him--you
know what I really think of him. Now let me show you my house. Isn't it
a sweet little home? Wasn't it good of Jasper to come here? He wanted a
flat, but when he saw that my heart was set on a little house, he took
this. Don't you like our taste in furniture, Milly? Oh, Milly dear, I
_am_ glad to see you. It is nice to look at one of the dear home-faces
again."
"Come and show me your house," said Mildred; "I am going to stay a long
time--all the afternoon, if possible."
"I am more than glad; you must remain to dinner. I will telegraph to
Jasper to come home early."
"I don't mind if I do," said Mildred. "I have no very special
engagements for this evening, and even if I had I should be disposed to
break them. It is not often one gets the chance of spending an hour in a
nest with two turtle-doves."
"Come, come," said Hilda, "that sounds as if you were laughing at us.
Now you shall see the house, and then we'll have tea together, and you
must tell me all about the old place."
The turtle-doves' nest was a very minute abode. There was only one
story, and the bed-rooms in consequence were small and few.
"Aren't we delightfully economical?" said Hilda, throwing open the door
of her own room. "Is not this wee chamber the perfection of snugness?
and this is Jasper's dressing room, and here is such a dear little
bath-room; and this is the spare-room (we have not furnished it yet, but
Jasper says we can't afford to have many visitors, so I'm not making any
special haste). And this is our servants'-room; I did not think when we
lived at Little Staunton that two servants could fit into such a tiny
closet, but these London girls seem quite to like it. Now, Mildred, come
downstairs. You have looked over this thimbleful of a house, and I hope
it has pleased you. Come downstairs and let us talk. I am starving for
news."
"Well, my dear, begin catechising to your heart's content," said
Mildred. She threw herself back into the easiest of the easy-chairs as
she spoke, and toasted her feet before Hilda's cheerful fire. "What do
you want to know first, Mrs. Quentyns?"
"How long is it since you left home--when did you see them all?"
"I was at home a fortnight ago, and I spent the greater part of one
afternoon at the Rectory."
"Oh, did you? Is it awfully changed?"
"No; the house is _in statu quo_. It looks just as handsome and stately
and unconcerned as of old. Aunt Marjorie says it is full of dust, but I
did not notice any. Aunt Marjorie has got quite a new wrinkle between
her brows, and she complains a great deal of the young cook, but my
private opinion is that that unfortunate cook is your aunt's salvation,
for she gives her something else to think of besides the one perpetual
grievance."
"Oh, yes, yes," said Hilda, a little impatiently, "poor dear Aunt
Maggie; and what about the others? How is my father?"
"He looks thin, and his hair is decidedly silvered; but his eyes just
beamed at me with kindness. He never spoke once about the change in his
circumstances, and on Sunday he preached a sermon which set me crying."
"Dear Mildred, I think father's sermons were always beautiful. How I
should like to hear him once again!"
"So you will, of course, very soon; they're all expecting you down. Why
don't you go?"
The faintest shadow of a cloud flitted across Hilda's face.
"Jasper is so busy," she said.
"Well, go without him. I am quite convinced you would do them a sight of
good."
"Jasper does not like me to leave him," said Hilda; "we both intend to
run down to the Rectory for a flying visit soon, but he is so busy just
at present that he cannot fix a day. Go on, Milly, tell me about the
others. What of Babs?"
"I saw her squatting down on the middle of the floor with a blind kitten
just three days old in her lap. The kitten squalled frightfully, and
Babs kept on calling it 'poor, _pretty_ darling.' I thought badly of the
kitten's future prospects, but well of its nurse's; she looked
particularly flourishing."
"And Judy?" said Hilda, "she wasn't well a little time ago, but Aunt
Marjorie has said nothing about her health lately. Has she quite, quite
recovered? Did she look ill? Did you see much of her?"
"She was sitting in the ingle-nook, reading a book."
"Reading a book!" said Hilda; "but Judy does not like reading. Was the
day wet when you called at the Rectory?"
"No; the sun was shining all the time."
"Why wasn't she out scampering and running all the time, and hunting for
grubs?"
"She had a cough, not much, just a little hack, and Aunt Marjorie
thought she had better stay indoors."
"Then she is _not_ quite well!"
"Aunt Marjorie says she is, and that the hack is nothing at all. By the
way, Hilda, if your husband won't spare you to go down to the Rectory,
why don't you have that child here on a visit? Nothing in the world
would do her so much good as a sight of your face."
"Oh, I know, I know; my little Judy, my treasure! But the spare-room is
not ready, and Jasper is so prudent, he won't go in debt for even a
shilling's-worth. He has spent all his available money on the house
furnishing, and says the spare-room must wait for a month or so. As soon
as ever it is furnished, Judy is to be the first guest."
"Can't you hire a little bedstead of some sort?" said Mildred, "and put
it up in that room, and send for the child. What does Judy care about
furnished rooms!"
"You think she looks really ill, do you, Mildred?"
"I will be candid with you, Hilda. I did not like her look--she suffers.
It is sad to read suffering in a child's eyes. When I got a peep into
Judy's eyes I could see that her soul was drooping for want of
nourishment. She is without that particular thing which is essential to
her."
"And what is that?"
"Your love. Do send for her, Hilda. Never mind whether the spare-room is
furnished or not."
Hilda sat and fidgeted with her gold chain. Her face, which had been
full of smiles and dimples, was now pale with emotion, her eyes were
full of trouble.
"Why are you so irresolute?" asked Mildred impatiently.
"Oh, I--I don't know. I am not quite my own mistress. I--I must think."
The servant entered the room with a letter on a little salver. Hilda
took it up.
"Why, this is from Judy," she exclaimed. "Perhaps she's much better
already. Do you mind my reading it, Mildred?"
"Read it, certainly. I shall like to know how the dear queer mite is
getting on."
Hilda opened her letter, and, taking out a tiny pink sheet, read a few
words written on it.
"MY DEAR HILDA:
"I am writing you a little letter. I hope you are quite well. I
don't fret, and I hope you don't. I think of you and never
forget you. I give you a kiss for now and for to-night, and for
every other night, and a million, thousand kisses for always.
"Your loving
"JUDY."
"Here are my kisses."
A whole lot of crosses and round o's followed.
"Here is my tex for us both. 'The Lord wach between me and
thee.'
"JUDY."
Hilda's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"There is something else in the envelope," she exclaimed. "I think a
scrawl from Aunt Marjorie. I had a volume from her yesterday. I wonder
what she wants to write about again."
"MY DARLING HILDA:
"Now don't be frightened, my dear, but I have something to tell
you which I think you ought to know. Our dear little Judy
fainted in a rather alarming way in church yesterday. Of course
we sent for the doctor, and he says she is very weak, and must
stay in bed for a day or two. He says we need not be alarmed,
but that her strength is a good deal run down, and that she must
have been fretting about something. It just shows how little
doctors know, for I _never_ saw the child sweeter, or more
gentle, or more easily amused. You know what a troublesome
little creature she used to be, always flashing about and
upsetting things, and bringing all kinds of obnoxious insects
into the house; but she has been just like a lamb since your
wedding, sitting contentedly by my side, looking over her fairy
story-books, and assuring me she wasn't fretting in the least
about you, and that she was perfectly happy. Babs did say that
she heard her crying now and then at night, but I fancy the
child must have been mistaken, for Judy certainly would not
conceal any trouble from me. I will write to you again about her
to-morrow. She directed this envelope to you herself yesterday
morning before church, so I am slipping my letter into it. Don't
be frightened, dear, we are taking all possible care of her.
"Your affectionate
"AUNT MARJORIE."
"There," said Hilda, looking up with a queer, terrified expression in
her eyes, "I knew how it would be. I married Jasper to please myself,
and I have killed Judy. Judy's heart is broken. Oh, what shall I do,
Milly, what shall I do?"
"Let me read Aunt Marjorie's letter," said Mildred.
Her quick, practical eyes glanced rapidly over the old lady's illegible
writing.
"I don't think you have killed her, Hilda," said Miss Anstruther then,
"but she is simply fading away for want of the love which was her life.
Go back to her; go back at once, and she will revive. Come, there is not
a moment to be lost. I'll run out and send a telegram to Little
Staunton. I'll tell them to expect you this evening. Where's an A B C?
Have you got one?"
"I think there is one on the wagon in the dining room. I'll fetch it."
Hilda ran out of the room; she brought back the time-table in a moment.
Her face was white; her hands shook so that she could scarcely turn the
leaves.
"Let me find the place," said Mildred. "There, let me see. Oh, what a
pity, you have lost the four o'clock train, and there isn't another
until seven. Never mind, say you will take that one. You'll arrive at
Bickley at twenty minutes to ten, and soon after ten you'll be at the
Rectory. I'll run at once and send off the telegram, for the sooner
Judy's heart is relieved the better."
Mildred rushed to the davenport, filled in a telegraph-form, and brought
it to Hilda to read.
"There, is that right?" she exclaimed. "Put your name to it if you are
satisfied."
Hilda dashed the tears, which were still blinding her eyes, away.
"Yes, yes," she exclaimed, "that will do. Take it at once, this moment,
before--before I have time to change my mind."
Mildred had written, "Tell Judy to expect me at ten to-night." Hilda
added her name, and Mildred prepared to leave the room.
"Good-by, Hilda," she said. "I won't come back, for you will need all
your time to pack, and to leave things in order for your Jasper.
Good-by, dear. Of course, you could not _think_ of changing your mind,
it would be wicked, cruel; yes, it would be terribly cruel. Good-by,
Hilda, good-by."
Mildred seated herself in the victoria and desired her coachman to drive
to the nearest telegraph-office.
"I have made a discovery," she said, under her breath. "Jasper Quentyns
was not the prince; no, _my_ prince has not yet shown his shining face
above the horizon. Doubtless he will never come; but better that than to
think he has arrived and wake to find him common clay. Hilda is
absolutely _afraid_ of her husband. No, Hilda, I would not be in your
shoes for a good deal."