THE LITTLE RIFT.
No backward path; ah! no returning;
No second crossing that ripple's flow:
Come to me now for the mist is burning:
Come ere it darkens; Ah, no; ah, no!
--JEAN INGELOW.
Jasper Quentyns was quite certain that he was behaving admirably under
circumstances of a specially trying nature.
Judy's advent in the house gave him no small annoyance. Hilda's behavior
about Judy, her fit of sudden passion, above all the relinquishing of
her engagement ring, had cut him to the quick. He was proud, sensitive,
and jealous; when, therefore, he could smile at Judy and chat in light
and pleasant tones to his wife, when he could remark on the furniture in
the spare room, and make many suggestions for the comfort of the little
sister-in-law whom he detested, he was under the impression that his
conduct was not only exemplary but Christian.
It was true that he went out a good deal in the evenings, not taking
Hilda with him as had been his original intention, but leaving her at
home to enjoy the society of the child who had brought the first cloud
into his home.
"I am going to dine out to-night, Hilda," he would say. "A man I know
particularly well has asked me. Afterward he and I may go to the theater
together. You won't mind of course being left, as you have Judy with
you?"
"Oh, no, dear!" she replied, on the first of these occasions; and when
Jasper came to say something of this sort two or three times a week,
Hilda's invariable gentle answer was always that she did not mind.
Jasper was kind--kindness itself, and if she did feel just a trifle
afraid of him, and if she could not help knowing all over her heart that
the sun did not shine now for her, that there was a cloud between her
husband and herself, which she could neither brush away nor penetrate,
she made no outward sign of being anything different from the cheery and
affectionate Hilda of old. There were subjects now, however, which she
shrank from touching on in Jasper's presence. One of them was her
engagement ring, another the furniture in Judy's room. That ring she had
been told by more than one connoisseur was worth at least fifty pounds,
and Hilda was certain that the simple furniture which made Judy's
little room so bower-like and youthful could not have cost anything
approaching that sum. Still Jasper said nothing about giving her change
out of the money which he had spent, and Hilda feared to broach the
subject of the ring to him. Another topic which by a sort of instinct
she refrained from was Judy herself. When Jasper was in the house Hilda
was always glad when Judy retired to her own room. When the gay little
voice, happy now, and clear and sweet as a lark's, was heard singing
snatches of gay songs all over the house, if Jasper were there, Hilda
would carefully close the door of the room he was sitting in.
"Not now, Judy darling," she would say, when the child bounded eagerly
into their presence. "Jasper is just going out--when he is out I will
attend to you. Go on with your drawing in the dining room until I come
to you, Judy."
Judy would go away at once obedient and happy, but Hilda's face would
flush with anxiety, and her eyes would not meet her husband's. So
between each of these young people there was that wall of reserve which
is the sad beginning of love's departure; but Hilda, being the weaker of
the two and having less to occupy her thoughts, suffered more than
Jasper.
On a certain evening when Judy had been a happy resident of No. 10
Philippa Terrace for over a month, Quentyns was about to leave his
office and to return home, when his friend Tom Rivers entered his room.
"Have you any engagement for to-night, Quentyns?" he asked abruptly.
"None," said Jasper, visible relief on his face, for he was beginning to
dislike the evenings which he spent with a wife who always had a sense
of constraint over her, and with the knowledge that Judy's presence was
only tolerated when he was by. "I am at your service, Tom," said Jasper.
"Do you want me to go anywhere with you?"
Rivers was a great deal older than Quentyns, he was a very clever and
practical man of the world. He looked now full at Jasper. He had not
failed to observe the eager relief on his friend's face when he asked if
he had any engagement. To a certain extent Jasper had made Rivers his
confidant. He had told him that Hilda's little sister, who had been so
ill and had given them all such a fright, was staying now at Philippa
Terrace.
Rivers shrewdly guessed that Hilda's little sister was scarcely a
welcome guest, as far as Quentyns was concerned. Rivers had taken a
fancy to pretty Mrs. Quentyns. With a quick mental survey he saw again
the picture of the young wife on the night when he had dined at Philippa
Terrace.
"She did not look perfectly happy," he thought. "I hope Quentyns is good
to her. I seldom saw a more charming face than hers, but with such eyes,
so full of expression, so full of that sort of dumb, dog-like
affectionateness, she must, she will suffer horribly if there comes a
cloud between her husband and herself. Quentyns is the best of fellows,
but he can be dogged and obstinate--I hope to goodness there's nothing
up in that pretty little home of theirs."
Aloud Rivers said abruptly, "I had thought of asking you to dine at the
club with me, and then we might have gone to see Irving in _Henry
VIII._,--a friend has given me two stalls,--but on second thoughts I can
dispose of those tickets. What I should really like best is to come home
with you, Quentyns, and have the pleasure of another chat with your
wife. I want to hear you both sing too--I seldom heard two voices better
suited to go together. May I invite myself to dinner to-night, Jasper?"
"Oh, certainly," said Jasper, after a moment's awkward hesitation. "I'll
just wire to Hilda, if you don't mind."
"Not at all," said Rivers; "but remember, I am coming to take
pot-luck."
Jasper ran off to the nearest telegraph office.
Rivers saw that his proposal was anything but welcome, but for that very
reason he was determined to carry it out.
An hour later he found himself standing in the pretty drawing room in
Philippa Terrace, talking to the most charming little girl he had ever
had the pleasure of meeting.
Quentyns had run up at once to his room, and Hilda had not yet put in an
appearance, but Judy, who was sitting on a sofa reading "Sylvie and
Bruno," jumped up at once and came forward in her shy but self-possessed
little way to meet her sister's guest.
"How do you do?" she said. "Where would you like to sit?"
"I prefer standing, thank you," said Rivers. He smiled at Judy and held
out his hand. "So you are the young mutineer," he said suddenly.
Judy's big eyes looked up at him in surprise--she was dressed in a green
silk frock, with a broad golden-brown sash round her waist. Her dress
was cut rather low in the neck, and she had several rows of golden-brown
beads round her throat. The quaint dress suited the quaint but earnest
little face.
"What do you mean by calling me such a queer name?" said Judy.
"I am a great friend of your brother-in-law's," said Rivers, now
dropping into a chair and drawing the child toward him, "and he has told
me all about you--you mutinied when Mrs. Quentyns went away--it was very
wrong of you, very wrong indeed."
"You can't judge anything about it," said Judy, the sensitive color
coming into her face; "you are on Jasper's side, so you can't know."
"Of course I'm on Jasper's side, he's an excellent fellow, and a great
friend of mine."
"I don't like him," said Judy; "it isn't to be expected I should."
"Of course not, you wouldn't be a mutineer if you did."
"I wish you wouldn't call me by that horrid name," said Judy. "I can't
quite understand what it means, but I'm sure it's disagreeable."
"A mutineer is always a disagreeable person," continued Rivers, looking
with his pleasant eyes full at the child. "He is in a state of
rebellion, you know. People aren't nice when they rebel against the
inevitable."
"What's the inevitable?" asked Judy.
"The inevitable!" repeated Rivers. "The inevitable," he continued
gravely, "is what has to be met because it cannot be avoided. The
inevitable stands directly in a person's path; he can't go round it, he
can't jump over it, he has just to meet it bravely and make the best
friend he possibly can of it."
"Oh," said Judy, "that sounds like a fairy tale. Babs and I love fairy
tales, particularly the old, old ones--the Jack the Giant Killer
sort--you understand?"
"Jack the Giant Killer had lots of inevitables to meet," pursued Rivers.
"Yes, of course," said Judy; "now I know what you mean as far as dear
Jack was concerned, but I don't know what you mean about me."
"Well, you see, Miss Judy--you don't mind my calling Jasper's little
sister Miss Judy?"
"Oh, don't talk of him," said Judy, a frown between her brows.
"But I must if I'm to explain my meaning to you, for he's the
inevitable."
"Now what _do_ you mean?--you're the most puzzling sort of grown-up
person I ever met!"
"And you're the most intelligent sort of little person I ever met. Now
let me explain matters to you. Your sister is very pretty, isn't she?"
"Pretty?" said Judy meditatively--"pretty is such a common sort of
word--if you call flowers pretty, Hilda is, I suppose, but she's much,
much more than pretty."
"I understand. I'm quite sure I understand you perfectly. And your
sister is good too, and sweet?"
"Oh, yes!" Judy's eyes filled with tears, she blinked her eyelashes and
looked out of the window.
"Well, now," said Rivers, and his voice was quite tender, for Judy's
manner and attitude touched him wonderfully. "Well, now, you see it was
inevitable that some man should love a woman like your sister, and want
to make her his wife, and wish to take her altogether to himself. It was
inevitable, also, that a woman with a gentle heart like Mrs. Quentyns
should love this man in return and want to devote her life to him."
"Don't!" said Judy, suddenly; "I understand you now, I don't want you to
say another word." She crossed over to the window and stood there with
her back to Rivers, looking gravely out.
Hilda came down in her rose-colored silk, and Rivers did not wonder that
Judy thought of the flowers when she looked at her.
Hilda was unfeignedly glad to see him, and they had a pleasanter evening
than any since Judy's advent in Philippa Terrace. Rivers paid a great
deal of attention to the smallest and youngest member of the party, and
not only completely won Hilda's heart by so doing, but induced Quentyns
to look at his little sister-in-law with new eyes, and to discover for
the first time, that under certain conditions that wistful little face
could be both lovely and charming.
"Remember about the inevitable," said Rivers, as he bade the child
good-night.
"What did Mr. Rivers mean, Judy?" said Hilda. "Oh, Judy, what flushed
cheeks!--I did wrong to let you sit up, but you seemed so happy--you
seemed to take such a fancy to Mr. Rivers."
"He was disagreeable to me--very disagreeable," said Judy, "but I liked
him."
"And what did he mean by reminding you of the inevitable?" continued
Hilda.
"It was in that way he was disagreeable," replied Judy. "I can't
explain, Hilda darling; good-night--I am going to bed now."
That evening, in their own room, Hilda came suddenly to her husband's
side.
"Jasper, don't you think you might forget about it now?" she said
timidly.
"Forget about what, Hilda?" He had been genial and pleasant until she
began to speak; now his face stiffened in every outline, and the look
came over it which always took poor Hilda's courage away.
"We were so happy to-night," she began in a faltering voice--"we had
quite the best evening we have had since----" here she hesitated.
"Since Judy came," pursued Jasper. "Yes, that goes without saying, there
were four of us--even the dearest friends are dull when there are three,
and of course Rivers is capital company, he's quite the best fellow all
round I ever met."
"Oh, yes!" said Hilda, a little impatiently, "but I don't want to talk
of him. Jasper dear, let us forget, let us--oh, let us be as we were
before."
Tears choked her voice, she turned her head away.
"I am so tired," she said suddenly; "I am the sort of girl who wants
sunshine, I am so tired of being without it."
"When you talk in that metaphorical style I fail to understand you,"
said Quentyns. "There's not the least cloud between us that I am aware
of, and if you are not in the sunshine, Hilda, I am afraid it is your
own fault. I have done everything in my power to meet your wishes. You
profess great love for me, and great love for your sister, and now you
have us both, what can you possibly want besides?"
"Only your forgiveness, your complete and full forgiveness."
"I have nothing to forgive, my dear. You do your best--no one can do
better than their best."
"No," said poor Hilda, with a sigh. She did not add any more.
"I trust you are not going to turn into a fanciful sort of woman," said
Quentyns, half an hour later. "If there's a person in the world who
irritates me it's a woman with whims, a woman who has a grievance."
"Oh, no, Jasper! I won't have a grievance," she replied humbly.