HUSBAND AND WIFE.
But she is far away
Now; nor the hours of night, grown hoar,
Bring, yet to me, long gazing, from the door,
The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray,
And rose-cream of the hour that leads the day,
When we shall meet once more.
--D. G. ROSSETTI.
Hilda Quentyns, Judy's idol, was not the strongest of characters. She
was very sweet and amiable, intensely true and affectionate to those to
whom she gave her heart, but she was somewhat timorous and somewhat
easily led.
Long ago, when Babs was a baby, Hilda's mother had died. Since then Judy
had been her special care.
Now with trembling hands she packed her portmanteau, gave the young cook
and parlor-maid directions what to do in her absence, and then sitting
down before her davenport, prepared to write an explanatory letter to
her husband.
She thought it quite probable that Jasper would be angry with her for
rushing off like this, but for once she intended to brave his
displeasure.
In her heart of hearts she knew exactly the state Judy was in. The
ardent soul was wearing out the delicate little frame. That suffering
which Judy would not speak of, which she was too brave to show sign or
whisper of, was making her body ill. If Hilda went to her darling, the
suffering would cease. Love would shine all round Judy's starved heart,
and she would soon be well and strong again.
"Yes, it is my manifest duty to go to her," whispered the wife to
herself. "I will go to Little Staunton and nurse her for a few days, and
when she is better she must come to London and live with me. Jasper
won't like it--I know he won't like it, but he has really nothing to
complain of, for I told him from the very first what Judy was to me.
Yes, I must go, but I wish--I do wish that the train for Little Staunton
left Waterloo at six instead of seven. I should be well on my journey
before Jasper came back. Oh, Jasper, my darling, why do I say words of
this sort, as if I were--as if I could be--afraid of you!"
Hilda dipped her pen into the ink and wrote the first words of her
letter.
"MY DEAREST HUSBAND:
"When you read this you will be surprised--"
A rather crooked dash of her pen finished this sentence--she was
startled by a quick double knock at the front door. A moment later
Susan, the neat maidservant, brought in a telegram on a salver.
"The boy is waiting to know if there is any answer," she said.
Hilda tore open the yellow envelope; her eyes rested on the following
words:
"Rivers will dine with us. Have everything nice, and expect me
home at 6.30.
"JASPER."
Mrs. Quentyns' first sensation was one of relief.
"It is all right," she exclaimed, looking up at the servant, who was
startled at her mistress's pale cheeks. "I thought my little sister,
Miss Judy, was worse, but the telegram is from your master, Susan. Tell
the boy there is no answer, and send cook to me without a moment's
delay."
Susan left the room, and Hilda slipped the telegram into her pocket. She
still felt only a sense of relief, and the first faint qualms as to
what Jasper would think of her sudden departure had not begun to visit
her. A knock was heard at the drawing-room door.
"Come in, come in," said the young mistress. "Oh, cook," exclaimed
Hilda, "I have just had a telegram from your master. He is bringing a
gentleman home to dine. A rather particular gentleman, and we want a
specially nice dinner. I--I forget what I ordered this morning."
The fat cook bestowed a pitying glance upon Hilda.
"The boiled chicken was to be fricasseed, mum," she said, "and you
ordered me to open one of the tins of oxtail soup; there were to be
apple fritters afterward, and a cheese savory--that is all."
"Yes, yes," said Hilda, putting her hand to her head, "that dinner would
have done very well for Mr. Quentyns and me, but we must make some
alterations now. You had better run round to the fishmonger's, cook, and
go to the butcher's, and order----"
Hilda rushed to her davenport, scribbled some hasty directions on a
piece of paper, and handed them to the servant.
"You must go this moment," she said, "it is six o'clock now; and please
call at the green-grocer's on your way back, and get a pound of bananas
and some Tangerine oranges. I will see that the wine is all right, and
speak to Susan about the table while you are out. Run, cook, run, at
once--things must look their _very_ best, and be served in the best
possible manner for dinner to-night."
The cook muttered something unintelligible, and by no means too well
pleased with her errand, departed.
Hilda called Susan, and going into the dining room helped her to
decorate the table; then after impressing upon the neat little
parlor-maid the necessity of doing what she could to help cook in this
sudden emergency, she ran upstairs to put on her bonnet and jacket, for
the time had almost arrived when she must start on her journey. She had
just come downstairs when the click of the latch-key was heard, and
Jasper, in excellent spirits, entered the house.
"Well, my love," he said, going up to his wife and kissing her; "oh, you
have been out!--did you get my telegram? I told Rivers we should not
dine until half-past seven, in order to give you plenty of time to
prepare. Perhaps you have been ordering some things for dinner, Hilda;
that is right, and just what I should have expected of you. I am
particularly anxious that Rivers should see that I have got the
sweetest, prettiest, and best little wife and housekeeper in the
world."
For some reason which she could not explain, even to herself, Hilda felt
her tongue tied. She returned her husband's kiss, and when he entered
the tiny dining room she followed him.
"Very nice, very nice," he exclaimed, looking with approval at the
dinner-table, which was charmingly decorated with pink Liberty silk and
white flowers. "But what is this?" he added suddenly, "there are only
two places laid. One for you and one for me. We must ring for Susan at
once--I think Rivers would rather sit at the side, away from the fire."
"I--Jasper, I want to tell you something."
"What is it? how pale you are, darling!"
"I want to tell you something," repeated Hilda; "I--I am not going to
dine with you to-night."
"What do you mean, my dear girl--are you ill? what can be the matter?"
"I am not ill, but Judy is--I am going down to Little Staunton. I have
telegraphed to them to expect me by the train due at 9.40, and it is
time for me to go. Is that you, Susan? Please would you order a hansom
at once?"
Susan instantly left the room, closing the door behind her.
For nearly half a minute Quentyns was silent, a great wave of color had
rushed over his face, and it was with difficulty he could keep back some
annoyed and some sarcastic words. He was a man who prided himself on
having great self-control, and before he uttered his first sentence he
felt that he had recovered it.
"You're trembling, dear," he said gently, "and you--you absolutely look
as if you were _afraid_ of me. Come into the drawing room, love, and
tell me what is wrong with Judy. My _bete noire_, Judy! what has been
her last transgression?"
"Jasper, don't, don't," said Hilda, in a voice of pain. "Judy is really
ill this time--she fainted in church on Sunday; she is in bed now, and
the doctor says she is very weak."
"I suppose so, or she would not have fainted. I used constantly to faint
when I was a child--the slightest thing sent me off. I was not kept in
bed afterward, for children were not cockered up and fussed over when I
was young. My faint was generally traced to over-eating. If you must go
down to see Judy, I don't wish to prevent you, Hilda, but why go
to-night?"
"Oh, Jasper, I must--I must run away this instant too, for I hear the
cab--I telegraphed to say I would go."
Jasper put on a new stubborn look which Hilda had never seen before.
"I don't wish to coerce you," he said, in a cold voice, "you're
perfectly free to act as you think right in the matter. I can go down
with you by an early train in the morning, or you can go by yourself
now, and put me to extreme inconvenience. You're at liberty to choose."
"Don't speak like that, Jasper, you pain me so dreadfully."
"I fail to see how I am paining you, I am giving you a free choice. You
can be with Judy before noon to-morrow, or you can go immediately."
"I sent a telegram to her to expect me; it is so bad for sick children
to be kept waiting."
"So it seems. Yes, Susan, tell the cab to wait."
Susan left the room, and heavy tears gathered in Hilda's eyes.
"Can I send another telegram?" she asked weakly.
"I don't believe you can, the telegraph office will be closed at Little
Staunton. Never mind, Hilda, you had better go; I am disappointed,
annoyed, of course, but what of that? What is a husband to a sick
sister? Go, my dear, or you will miss your train!"
"No, I won't go," said Hilda; "you have made it impossible for me to
go. I'll stay and entertain your guest, and Judy will suffer. Yes; don't
kiss me just now, Jasper; I think you are cruel, but I'll stay."
Hilda went over to the bell and rang it.
Susan answered the summons.
"Give the cabman this shilling," said Mrs. Quentyns, "and tell him that
he is not required."
"You have done quite right, my love," said Quentyns, "and when you have
got over your first little feeling of annoyance you will see the matter
in the same light that I do. I'll telegraph to Little Staunton early in
the morning to tell them to expect us by the 11.35 train. Of course Judy
would have been asleep hours before you reached her to-night, so it does
not really matter in the least. Now come upstairs and put on your very
prettiest dress, that soft pink _chiffon_, in which you look as like a
rosebud as a living woman can. I have capital news for you, Hilda, my
love; Rivers certainly is a brick; he has got me to act as counsel
in----"
Quentyns talked on in his satisfied, joyous tones. He had won the
victory, and could afford to be very gracious and generous. Hilda felt
as if a band of iron had closed round her heart. She was too gentle and
sweet in her nature to be long angry with her husband. Her face was a
little paler than usual, however, and her eyes had a weary look in them.
Rivers, who was a very keen observer of human nature, noticed the silent
depression which hung over her, but Hilda's husband failed to observe
it.
"I can easily manage her," he muttered to himself; "it would have been
beyond all reason to have had her absent from our first little dinner
just because a child had fainted. Pshaw!--I can see that Hilda is going
to be painfully fanciful; it all comes from having lived so long in the
wilds of the country. Well, I'll take her down to Little Staunton
to-morrow, and be specially good to her, but she must get over these
absurdities about Judy, or life will not be worth living."
The dinner was a success, and Hilda looked lovely. A certain dreamy and
far-away expression in her eyes added the final touch to her beauty.
When the men sat together over their wine, Rivers spoke of her in tones
of rapture.
"You're the luckiest fellow in Christendom, Jasper," he said; and Jasper
Quentyns, who looked up to Tom Rivers as the first of men, felt almost
unduly elated.
"The lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places," so he muttered, and
he forgot all about a sick and troublesome child, who at this very
instant was counting the moments as they flew by, in her tired and weary
eagerness to clasp her arms round Hilda's neck. Hilda, too, in the
drawing room, was shedding silent tears, but what did that matter? for
Jasper knew nothing about them.
Jasper and Hilda were both musical, and Tom Rivers liked nothing better
than to listen to their voices as they sang duet after duet together.
The songs they sung were full of noble sentiment. Their voices mingled
until they almost sounded like one rich and perfect note, as they sang
of love which is undying and self-sacrifice which is ennobling. Quentyns
felt a glow of elation filling his breast as his eyes rested on his
lovely wife, and the tormentings of Hilda's conscience were soothed, and
she too partly forgot Judy.
Breakfast was served at an early hour next morning at Philippa Terrace,
and Quentyns and his wife started for Little Staunton in time to catch
the early train.
They arrived at the small way-side station not more than twenty minutes
beyond the appointed time, and were met by Miss Mills, who was driving
the village pony cart herself.
The governess addressed Hilda in a calm voice, but her inward
excitement was very manifest. Jasper had talked cheerfully all the way
down to Little Staunton, but Hilda had been almost silent. She felt
oppressed--she dreaded she knew not what. Now, when she looked into Miss
Mills' face, she felt her own turn pale.
"No, don't speak," she said, in a hoarse whisper. "I _know_ you have bad
news, but don't tell me now, not until we get home."
"Get in," said Miss Mills, "I won't be long driving you to the Rectory.
It is rather important for you to be there, and as the trap only holds
two, perhaps Mr. Quentyns won't mind walking."
"Not at all," said Jasper, in his pleasant, calm voice. "Can you make
room for our portmanteau at your feet, Miss Mills? Ah, yes, that will do
nicely. By the way, how are you all? has Judy quite recovered from her
faint?"
When Quentyns asked this question Miss Mills bent suddenly forward under
the pretense of trying to arrange the portmanteau.
"We won't be any time getting to the Rectory," she said, turning to
Hilda; she touched the pony with her whip as she spoke and they started
forward.
"It was such a pity you didn't come last night," said the governess, as
they entered the Rectory gates.
"I--I could not help it," murmured poor Hilda. With one hand she was
tightly grasping the edge of the little basket-carriage.
"Stop, there is father," she exclaimed suddenly. "Let me go to him. I--I
can bear him to tell me if there is anything wrong."
In an instant she reached the Rector's side. Her arms were round his
neck, her head on his shoulder, and she was sobbing her heart out on his
breast.
"My dearest Hilda, my darling!" exclaimed her father. "What is the
meaning of all this? Why are you so dreadfully unhappy, my child?"
"Tell me, father, I can bear it from you. Is she--is she dead?"
"Is who dead?"
"Ju--Judy."
"No; what has put that into your head? But your little sister is very
ill, Hilda. I am not so much alarmed about her as your Aunt Marjorie is,
but I confess her state puzzles me. I saw Dr. Harvey to-day, and I don't
think he is satisfied either. It seems that for some reason the child
was over-excited last night--there was difficulty in getting her off to
sleep, and she cried in a very distressing and painful way. I was
obliged to sit with her myself. I held her hand, poor little darling,
and had a prayer with her, and--toward morning she dropped off into a
sleep."
"And," continued Hilda, "she was better when she awoke, wasn't she? Do
say she was, father. You showed her Jasper's telegram the very instant
she awoke, and of course she got much better immediately."
"My dear Hilda, the strange thing about Judy has yet to be told; she has
not awakened--she is still asleep, and this prolonged and unnatural
sleep disturbs Dr. Harvey a good deal."
"I had better go to her at once, father. I think the doctor _must_ be
mistaken in thinking sleep bad. When Judy sees me sitting by her bedside
she will soon cheer up and get like her old self. I'll run to her now,
father: I don't feel half so much alarmed since you tell me that she is
only asleep."
The Rector gave vent to a troubled sigh; Hilda put wings to her feet,
and with the lightness and grace of a bird sped toward the house.
"Hilda, Hilda!" called her husband. He had taken a short cut across some
fields, and was now entering the Rectory domain. He thought it would be
quite the correct thing for his wife to wait for him. Surely she would
like to enter her family circle with him by her side. "Hilda, stop!" he
cried, and he hurried his own footsteps.
But if Hilda heard she did not heed. She rushed on, and soon disappeared
from view inside the deep portico of the old house.
Two or three moments later she was sitting without her hat and jacket,
and with a pair of noiseless house-slippers on her feet, by Judy's
bedside.
All the preparations which had been made with such care and pains by
Babs the night before were still making the nursery look pretty. The
little china animals sat in many funny groups on the mantelpiece. The
white and blue violets lay in a large bowl on a table by Judy's side.
One of the little sleeper's hands was thrown outside the counterpane.
Hilda touched it, and found that it burned with a queer, uncomfortable
dry heat.
"But how quietly she is sleeping," said Mrs. Quentyns, looking up with
tears in her eyes at Aunt Marjorie; "why are you so solemn and
sad?--surely this sleep must be good for her."
"My dear, Dr. Harvey calls Judy's state more stupor than sleep. He says
the most extraordinary things about the child ... that she has been
over-excited and subjected to a severe mental strain, and he fears
mischief to the brain. But surely he must be wrong, for nothing _could_
exceed the quiet of our life at the Rectory since the money has gone and
you have left us, and no one could have been less excited in her ways
than Judy has been since your marriage. I can't make out what Dr. Harvey
means."
"I think I partly understand," said Hilda; her voice had a choking
sound. "Don't talk so loud, Aunt Marjorie," she said impatiently; "you
will wake her--you will disturb her."
"But that is what we wish," interrupted the old lady. "The doctor says
we must do everything in our power to rouse her. Ah, and here he comes;
he will speak for himself."
"I am glad to see you, Mrs. Quentyns," said Dr. Harvey. "Your not coming
last night when the child expected you was a grave mistake, but better
late than never."
He stopped speaking then, and bent over the little sleeper.
"Draw up the blind," he said to Aunt Marjorie, "let us have all the
light we can. Now don't be frightened, Mrs. Quentyns--I am not going to
hurt the child, but I must examine her eyes."
Hilda felt as if she could scarcely restrain a stifled scream as the
doctor lifted first one lid and then the other, and looked into the
dark depths of the sweet eyes.
"The child has got a shock," he said then. "I feared it when I called
early this morning. I don't say for a moment that she will not get
better, but her state is very precarious. I should like you to nurse her
altogether, Mrs. Quentyns; much depends on her seeing you by her side
when she wakes."
"I shall never leave her again," said Hilda, in a stifled tone.
The doctor's practiced ear caught the suppressed hysteria in her voice.
"Come, come," he said cheerily, "you have nothing to blame yourself for.
The little one has evidently felt your absence in a remarkable manner."
"Really, doctor, you are quite mistaken," began Aunt Marjorie. "What I
principally noticed about Judy was her great quietness and docility
since Hilda left. She scarcely spoke of her sister, and seemed content
to sit by my side and read fairy stories. She used to be such a very
excitable, troublesome sort of child. If you ask me frankly, I think
Hilda's absence did her good."
The doctor looked from the old lady to the young.
"I must adhere to my first opinion," he said. "The child has missed her
sister. Now that you have come, Mrs. Quentyns, we will hope for the
best."
He went out of the room as he spoke, and Aunt Marjorie followed him.
Hilda dropped on her knees by Judy's cot.
"Oh, my God, forgive me," she cried, in a broken anguished prayer. "I
did wrong to leave my little Judy. Oh, God, only spare her life, and I
will vow to you that _whatever_ happens she shall never leave me in the
time to come. Whatever happens," repeated Hilda, in a choking voice of
great agony. Then she rose and took her place beside the child's bed.
A couple of hours passed by. The door was softly opened, and Quentyns
stole into the room. He had been very much shocked by the doctor's
account of the child, and his face and tone expressed real sympathy as
he came up to Hilda.
"Poor little Judy!" he said, bending over her. "What a queer excitable
little mite it is."
Hilda beat her foot impatiently.
"Well, my darling," continued Quentyns, not noticing his wife's
suppressed agitation, "she will soon be all right now you have come.
Lunch is ready, Hilda, and you must be weak for want of food. Come,
dearest, let me take you down to the dining room."
"Oh, no, Jasper! I can't leave Judy; and please, please don't talk so
loud."
"The doctor does not wish her to be kept _too_ quiet, Hilda; and surely,
my dear, you are not going to starve yourself!"
"Aunt Marjorie will send me something to the dressing room; I can't be
away from Judy even for one minute. There is no saying when she will
awake, and I must be with her when she does."
Quentyns smothered an impatient exclamation. After a pause he said
gently:
"As you please, dear; I will bring something up myself to the dressing
room for you," and he stole on tip-toe out of the room.
Nothing could be more patient than his manner, and Hilda reproached
herself for the feeling of irritation which his presence gave her.
There came a sigh from the bed--the faintest of sounds; Mrs. Quentyns
turned her head quickly, and saw to her rapture that Judy's big
greeny-gray eyes were wide open and fixed earnestly on her face. There
was no surprise in the pretty eyes, nor any additional color in the pale
little face.
"Hilda," said Judy, "I _thought_ it was only a bad dream--you never
went away, did you?"
"I am never going to leave you again, Judy," replied her sister; "never,
never, as long as we both live. I vow--I promise--nothing shall part us,
nothing except death."
Hilda flung herself on her knees by the child's bed, and burst into
hysterical sobs.