JUDY'S ROOM.
An ear that waits to catch
A hand upon the latch.
--DORA GREENWELL.
"Here is a letter from Jasper, Hilda darling," said Aunt Marjorie,
coming into Judy's bedroom two or three days after the events mentioned
in the last chapter. "I know the hand-writing, dear. How strong and
manly it looks. I do love a manly hand, don't you?"
Hilda did not reply. She rose from her seat by Judy's side, and taking
her husband's letter, walked to the window, and, standing with her back
to the light, opened it eagerly. Her face was a little pale and worn,
and her eyes had tired lines under them. No one had noticed any change
in her, however. Judy was fast recovering--each day her spirits rose,
her appetite improved, her strength grew greater. She was to be taken
into Hilda's old boudoir to-day, and Babs was importantly moving the
beloved china animals, arranging flowers, and getting the room ready
for the great event.
Aunt Marjorie, after her usual fashion, fussed over Judy while Hilda
read her letter. It was brief, but somehow it gave the young wife
unexpected hope and pleasure:
"MY DEAREST WIFE:
"Pray forgive me for not writing sooner, but I have been
exceedingly busy since I returned to town, and have dined each
night with Rivers at his club. I send a hasty line now to say
that you can bring Judy back to Philippa Terrace whenever she is
strong enough to be moved, as I have given Shoolbred full
directions with regard to furnishing the spare room, and have
just had a letter from him to say the goods will be delivered
to-day.
"Pray don't tire yourself more than is necessary. And believe
me,
"Your affectionate husband,
"JASPER QUENTYNS."
"Judy," said Hilda--she turned eagerly, the old lovely color mantling
her cheeks, and the brightness of hope filling her eyes. "Isn't Jasper
good, Judy? I have just heard from him--he says the furniture is coming
in for your room to-day. We can go back to town as soon as ever Dr.
Harvey thinks you strong enough to be moved, my pet."
"Which won't be this week," interrupted Aunt Marjorie. "It would be the
sheerest madness. Has Jasper proposed such a thing, Hilda? If so, I can
only say how like a man. In about a fortnight, this dear child may be
the better for change of air.... I have no doubt too that Dr. Harvey
will be pleased to have a London opinion about her. There may be a
weakness of the heart's action. I never am easy about people who faint
off suddenly. Now, Judy, why do you flush up? you know you oughtn't to
listen when Auntie talks to Hilda about you. Go on reading your pretty
story book, my love. Yes, Hilda, I should like the child to see a
first-class physician. You know your mother's heart was not strong. He
will doubtless order cod-liver oil, but for my part I prefer cream."
"I know something better than cream for Judy--don't I, my pet?" said
Hilda, turning to her little sister with her bright smile.
"And so do I," replied Judy. "Oh, Hilda, to think of living with you in
your own little house! Oh, Hilda, I'm _too_ happy--I am so happy that my
heart aches. It aches with pleasure."
Judy's thin arms were flung round her sister's neck. Her lips pressed
Hilda's soft young cheek, her eyes looked into Hilda's. It seemed to
them both at that moment that soul answered to soul.
"Now what nonsense this is," said Aunt Marjorie in her fussy tones.
"Judy, I hope Hilda is not going to encourage you in silly sentimental
talk of that kind. You say your heart aches with pleasure. Really, my
dear, I have no patience to listen to you. I should like to know what a
child like you knows about heart-aches--you, who have been brought up in
what I may call the very lap of luxury. For, Hilda, I have made it the
object of my life ever since poverty came to us, to prevent even the
slightest shadow of its wings touching the children. They have had their
excellent governess, and their warm schoolroom and snug bedroom. I cut
down one of my own fur cloaks to give them really nice winter jackets,
and I took special care that the schoolroom table should be as liberal
as ever. It is impossible, therefore, for me to understand Judy's silly
words about her heart aching."
Aunt Marjorie left the room, and Judy still softly rubbed her cheek
against Hilda's.
"But my heart did ache," she said after a pause--"it aches with joy now,
and it did ache--oh, it kept crying, it felt starved without you,
Hilda."
"I understand--yes, I understand," replied Hilda.
"You don't mind what Aunt Marjorie says then?"
"Not about you, my own little love."
"Hilda, I did really try very, very hard not to fret."
"The effort was too much for you, my Judy; but never mind, the pain and
the parting are all over now. Isn't it kind of your new brother--isn't
it kind of dear, dear Jasper--to get the nice little room furnished and
ready for you, darling?"
"Yes, Hilda. Has he gone in debt for the furniture? You told me long ago
that the room would have been furnished and that I should have come to
you, but there was no money left, and Jasper would not go in debt. Has
he really gone in debt now, just to please me?"
"No, my love, no--we have managed. You must not ask inquisitive
questions. All is right now, and we shall be very happy together."
Dr. Harvey was highly pleased, when he heard that his little patient was
going to London with her sister. He was a man with plenty of
observation, and he could read between the lines much better than poor
obtuse old Aunt Marjorie.
"You are the right physician for your little sister, Mrs. Quentyns," he
said. "I prophesy that Miss Judy will become perfectly strong and well
in a short time under your care. Yes, there will be nothing to prevent
her traveling to town on Saturday next, if you really wish it. The
weather is extraordinarily mild for the time of year, and a change will
do Judy more good than anything else."
Hilda wrote a joyful letter to her husband that day.
"You are to expect us both on Saturday," she said. "Oh, Jasper, how
happy your letter has made me. How good--how really good you are. Please
forgive me if I was a little hasty with you the other evening. I know
you will never regret, darling husband, helping me to keep both my
vows--the vow I made to you, and the vow I made mother. No one ever had
a more loving wife than I shall prove to you, and no one ever had a
dearer little sister than you will find my Judy when you really know
her."
"Her Judy, indeed!" murmured Quentyns, when he read his wife's letter at
his breakfast-table on the following morning. "Tiresome little
piece--she'll never be _my_ Judy, however much she may be Hilda's. Well,
I suppose I must make the best of a bad job, but if I had known
beforehand that that wretched sentimental child was to be tacked on to
us, I'd have thought twice.... No, I wouldn't though, I love Hilda well
enough to bear some inconvenience for her sake; but if she thinks this
step will really add to our happiness, she'll soon find her mistake.
Fancy her asking me to sell her engagement ring! I can never get over
that. Things can't be quite the same again--it's impossible. Well, well,
more than one friend has told me I'd wake from my dream of bliss some
day. I have, with a vengeance--it has been something of a shock too.
Heigho! I am not going to _look_ like defeat, anyhow. Of course, too,
I'll be just the same to Hilda outwardly. Ah, there's Susan--I'd better
speak to her and get her to tell cook. This is Thursday--they'll be here
in two days."
"Susan," as the neat parlor-maid entered the room, "I have had a letter
from your mistress. She is coming home on Saturday, and will bring
little Miss Merton with her. Have the things come from Shoolbred's yet?"
"The furniture, sir, for the spare room? Yes, it arrived yesterday, and
the man is coming to lay down the carpet and put up the curtains this
morning."
"Well, Susan, you get the room ready, and have the bed well aired, and
tell me if there's anything more wanted--the child has been ill, and
she'll require every comfort. Mrs. Quentyns will wish the room to look
as nice as possible. I know nothing about these matters--see to it,
Susan, will you?"
"Yes, sir; you may depend on me and cook to do everything right----"
"And tell cook about your mistress. Let me see, they'll be home between
five and six on Saturday evening. I shan't dine at home to-night, and if
a telegram comes for me, I want you to wire to my city address. This is
it."
Quentyns left the house, and Susan and the cook spent a busy day in
dusting, polishing, sweeping, and cleaning.
The little spare room looked very sweet and bright with the simple tasty
furniture which Quentyns had chosen. The small bed was inviting in its
white draperies. The furniture, painted in artistic greens, had a cool
and young effect. The room looked like a child's room, and Susan and
cook were in ecstasies over its appearance.
"Master _'ave_ taste and no mistake," said cook. "But why don't he come
and look for 'isself at all we have done, Susan? So natty as everything
looks, and the furniture master's taste and all. Won't missis be
pleased! But why don't he come and say what he thinks of how we has put
the things, Susan?"
"Never you mind," said Susan. "Master knows as the arranging of
furniture is woman's province--there's no fussing in him, and that's
what I likes him for."
Saturday arrived in due time, and the little house in Philippa Terrace
was in apple-pie order.
As Quentyns was leaving for town that morning, Susan waylaid him.
"What hour shall I tell my missis that we may expect you home, sir?" she
asked. "Mrs. Quentyns and the little lady will be here by six, and the
very first thing my missis will ask is, when you are coming in."
"Say," began Quentyns--he paused. "I'll write a line," he said; "you can
give it to your mistress. I shan't be in to dinner to-night, and cook
had better prepare tea for Mrs. Quentyns and Miss Merton, with fish or
chops or something of that sort. I'll write a line--I'm glad you
reminded me, Susan."
Quentyns went into his tiny little study, and wrote a few hasty words.
"DEAR HILDA: I have some important work to get through to-night,
and shall not be back early. I have the latch-key, so no one
need sit up. I shall dine at the club with Rivers. Go to bed
early if you are tired.
"Your Affectionate Husband."
This letter was handed to Hilda on her arrival. She was too excited and
too interested in getting Judy into the house, and showing her all the
pleasant arrangements made for her comfort, to read it at first; but
when her tired little sister was safe in bed, and Hilda had seen her
enjoying a cup of tea, with some toast and a new-laid country egg, then
she took Jasper's note out of her pocket.
She was in her own room, and she hesitated for a moment before she
opened it. She had a kind of premonition that there was pain in it. Her
home-coming had made her happy, and even while she was opening the
envelope of Jasper's letter she was listening for the click of his
latch-key in the hall-door lock.
He was always home in good time on Saturdays, and surely he would make
extra haste to-night in order to give his wife and his little sister a
hearty welcome.
Hilda's was the most forgiving nature in the world. During that scene
in the conservatory at Little Staunton she had lost her temper with her
husband, but she felt quite sure now that her hasty words must be
forgotten. As she forgave absolutely, so would he. Why had he written to
her therefore? Why was he not here? She pulled the note out of its
envelope, and read the few words that it contained.
It is not too much to say that her heart sank down, down, very low
indeed in her breast. She became conscious for the first time in her
life of that heart-hunger, that absolute starved sort of ache which had
so nearly wrecked Judy's little life. This was the first pang of pain,
but the ache was to go on and become worse presently.
Hilda was a very patient sort of woman, however, and it did not occur to
her to cry out or make a fuss. She read the note twice, then put it into
her pocket and went downstairs.
"Tell cook that I don't want any dinner," she said to Susan; "I will
have my tea upstairs with Miss Judy. Tell her not to get dinner, as Mr.
Quentyns is obliged to be out this evening."
"Hilda," called Judy's weak little voice from out of her luxurious white
bed; "Hilda, do come here a minute."
Hilda went immediately into the room.
"I am so happy and so sleepy," said Judy. "I'm like a bird in a
nest--oh, I am so snug. Jasper will be coming in presently, won't he,
Hilda? and you'll want to be with him. I shan't need you at all
to-night, Hilda darling; I'm going to sleep very soon, and I just sent
for you now to say that you mustn't come up to me after dinner--you must
stay with Jasper and let him amuse you. I am sure you want lots of
amusement after all the dull nursing you have had. Go and put on your
pretty dinner dress now, Hilda, and then come and look at me and say
good-night. I am so awfully happy, and I just want one kiss from you
before I go to sleep."
"But you don't want to go to sleep yet, little puss," said Hilda, in her
most cheerful tone; "at least I hope you don't until I have had my tea.
I want to have my tea with you, darling, so I hope you don't mind
putting up with my company for a little longer."
"As if I could mind--you know better. But, Hilda, if you have tea now
you won't be hungry for your dinner."
Judy puckered her dark brows with anxiety.
"I'm not going to have dinner."
"You aren't--not really! then what will Jasper say?"
"I've had a little letter from Jasper, darling; he is obliged to be out
late on business, and won't dine at home to-night. Ah, here comes Susan
with another new-laid egg for me, and some fresh toast. Now I am going
to have a delightful little supper in your company, Judy, and then I
shall settle you for the night."
Hilda talked faster than was her wont; there was an additional
rose-color in her pretty cheeks, and a brighter light than usual in her
soft brown eyes. She laughed and jested and made merry over her egg and
toast.
"How pretty you look!" said Judy, with a heart-whole sigh of admiration
and content.
She saw nothing wrong, and Hilda kissed her and left the room a few
minutes later.
She was still wearing her heavy traveling-dress, but after a moment's
reflection she went into her bedroom, and quickly changed it for a pale
silk dress of the softest shade of rose. This dress was a special
favorite of her husband's; he used to liken her to a rosebud in it, and
said that no color more truly matched the soft tender bloom of her young
face.
Hilda put on the rose silk now, arranged her dark hair picturesquely,
and going downstairs to the little drawing room, occupied herself for an
hour or more in giving it some of those delicate touches which make the
difference between the mistress of the house being at home and away.
It was a very warm evening for the time of year, but Hilda had a fire
lit in the grate. The shaded lamp shed a softened golden glow in its
accustomed corner of the room, and Jasper's favorite chair was placed
ready for his reception; then Hilda sank down into her own easy-chair,
and taking up a book, tried to read.
Susan came presently into the room.
"Oh, Susan," said her mistress, "I was about to ring for you. It has
struck ten o'clock; you and cook are to go to bed, please; I will wait
up for Mr. Quentyns."
"If you please, ma'am," said Susan.
She stopped and hesitated.
"Yes, Susan?" answered Mrs. Quentyns, in a gentle interrogative tone.
"If you please, ma'am, master has been very late coming home when you
was in the country--not till past midnight most nights."
"Thank you, Susan; but Mr. Quentyns will probably be in earlier
to-night, and I wish to remain up. Go to bed, and tell cook to do the
same. Oh, and please, I should like Miss Judy to have a cup of tea
brought to her room at eight to-morrow morning. Good-night, Susan."
The parlor-maid withdrew.
"And don't she look beautiful as a pictur," she muttered under her
breath. "Pore young lady, I doubt if she's pleased with master though.
Him staying away and all on the first night as she comes back. I
wouldn't set up for him ef I were her--no, that I wouldn't; I wouldn't
make so little of myself; but she's proud, too, is Mrs. Quentyns, and
she don't let on; no, not a bit. Well, I respect her for that, but I
misdoubt me if all is right atween that pair."
Susan went upstairs to confide her suspicions to cook. They talked in
low whispers together, and wondered what the mystery could be which was
keeping Quentyns from his pretty wife's side.
In the meantime, in the silent house the moments for the one anxious
watcher went slowly by. Her novel was not interesting--she let it fall
on her knees, and looking at the little clock on the mantelpiece,
counted the moments until eleven should strike. She quite expected that
Jasper would be home at eleven. It did not enter for a moment into her
calculations that he could be absent on this first night of her return
beyond that hour. When the eleven musical strokes sounded on the little
clock, and were echoed in many deeper booms from without, she got up,
and opening the drawing-room door, stepped out into the little hall.
Footsteps kept passing and passing in the street. Cabs kept rolling up
to other doors and rolling away again. Jasper must surely arrive at any
moment.
Hilda softly opened the hall door, and standing on the steps, looked up
and down the gas-lit street. If Jasper were walking home he would see
her. The lamp light from within threw her slim figure into strong
relief. A man passing by stopped for an instant to look at her.
Hilda shut the hall door hastily in fear and distress. The man had
looked as if he might say something rude. She returned to her little
drawing room, and sitting down by the dying fire stared fixedly into its
embers until her eyes were full of tears.
Between twelve and one Quentyns let himself softly into the house with
his latch-key. He was immediately attracted by the light in the drawing
room, the door of which was slightly ajar. He came into the room at
once, to find Hilda lying back in her easy-chair, fast asleep. She was
looking pale--all her pretty roses had fled. Quentyns' first impulse was
to fold her in his arms in an embrace of absolute love and
reconciliation.
What a pity it is that we don't oftener yield to our first impulses,
for they are as a rule whispered to us by our good angels.
Quentyns bent forward, and lightly, very lightly, touched the sleeper's
soft hair with his big hand. That touch was a caress, but it startled
Hilda, who woke up with a cry.
"Oh, Jasper," she said, looking at him with alarm in her eyes, "you--you
are home! I didn't mean to go to sleep, and--what is it, Jasper?"
"Kiss me, Hilda; I am glad you have returned," said Quentyns. "But
another night, if I should happen to be late, you must not sit up for
me--I hate being waited for."