THREE IS TRUMPERY.
The crown must be won for Heaven, dear,
In the battle-field of life:
My child, though thy foes are strong and tried,
He loveth the weak and small;
The Angels of Heaven are on thy side,
And God is over all!
--ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
Judy's life was sunshine, and therefore Judy got quickly well; she was
like the birds and the flowers--give her sunshine enough, and she would
sing like the birds and bloom like the flowers. Hilda was her sun, and
now she was always basking herself in the beloved presence. Her cup of
happiness was full, and such contentment reigned in her little heart
that no moment was dull to her, and time never hung heavy on her hands.
Hilda was just as sweet and loving as of old, and really, now that she
lived in the house with him, Jasper, her _bete noire_, the awful big
brother-in-law who had come and stolen her treasure away, seemed to make
but little difference in her life; it was almost nicer being with Hilda
in London than being with Hilda at the old Rectory--she seemed to get
more undivided attention from her sister than when that sister was the
Rector's right hand in his busy life, and when Judy had to learn lessons
with Babs, and walk with stupid, non-comprehending Miss Mills.
Now Judy learned rapidly, for Hilda was her teacher; and how delightful
that lunch was which was also Judy's early dinner, when she and her
sister sat _tete-a-tete_, and talked always, always of old times.
If visitors dropped in at tea-time Judy could afford, in her generous
happiness, to give them a little of her fascinating Hilda's attention,
for so often now there were heavenly evenings to follow, when that _bete
noire_ the brother-in-law was not coming home, and the two sisters could
be alone.
Judy loved the cozy sort of tea-dinners which began those evenings, and
then the long talk afterward in the lengthening twilight, when she sat
on a stool at Hilda's feet, with her head pressed up against Hilda's
arm, and her happy heart beating close to the other heart, which was all
her world.
On those evenings too Hilda came upstairs and tucked her up in her white
bed, and said, _Now I lay me down to sleep_ to her, just as she used in
the old nursery at home, after mother died.
It was an understood thing, although no words had passed between the
two--it was an understood thing, that on the evenings when Jasper was at
home, Hilda should not come upstairs to Judy. This seemed a perfectly
fair and just arrangement, they were both in full accord on the subject;
but Judy could not help loving those days when she might have her sister
all to herself the best.
On the morning after Rivers had dined in Philippa Terrace, as Jasper was
preparing to go out as usual, Hilda ran into the little hall to give him
a last word; she left the door of the dining room ajar, which was not
her invariable custom, and Judy, sitting at the breakfast table, found
herself in the position of an eavesdropper.
"You are coming back to dinner to-night?" asked the wife.
Jasper had been visited with some slight qualms of compunction that
morning, as he noticed how much paler Hilda's face was than when first
he had married her, so he put his arm round her neck now, and looking at
her with something of his old tenderness, said gently:
"Do you really wish it?"
"Jasper, how can you doubt?" she replied. "All the moments you are away
from me are long and wearisome."
"Long and wearisome," repeated Judy softly to herself in the breakfast
parlor. Some of the color fled out of her face now; she lost her
appetite for the bread-and-butter and marmalade which she was eating.
"You don't find three trumpery," pursued Jasper. Then he added with a
little sigh, "I wish I didn't; but I'll come home, Hilda, if you wish
it. Good-by, my dear. Stay, stop a moment; suppose I take you to the
play to-night. Judy won't mind going to bed a little earlier than
usual."
Just at that moment Hilda started and looked round; she heard a slight
noise, and wondered if Susan were coming upstairs. The sound which
disturbed her was made by Judy, who, awaking suddenly to the knowledge
that she was an eavesdropper, had risen from the breakfast table and had
gently closed the dining-room door.
"Of course Judy doesn't mind being left," said Hilda in a joyful tone.
"I should love to go out somewhere with you, Jasper. I really do want a
little bit of change."
"Very well, my love; I'll take tickets for something amusing, and be
home to dinner at six."
Quentyns went out, and Hilda danced back to the dining room. Her husband
had been kind, with something of the old tender kindness, and her heart
leaped up like a flower answering to the sun.
Judy was standing by the window looking out.
"Isn't it a lovely day, pet?" said Hilda, coming up to her. "Suppose we
give ourselves a holiday, and go to the Academy together. I have not
been there yet this year, and you have never been in all your life,
puss. You know how you love pictures; fancy room after room full of
pictures--all sorts, good, bad, and indifferent; all colors in them; all
sorts of subjects depicted on the canvases. There's a treat for my
little artist--shall I give it her?"
"Yes, Hilda, I'd like to go with you very much."
"Are you tired, dear, your face is so grave?"
"No, darling, I'm not at all tired."
"Well, we'll give ourselves a holiday. Run up and put on your pretty
green cloak, and that big black hat with the green velvet. I want you to
look as picturesque as possible. I want to be proud of you."
Judy suddenly flew to Hilda, clasped her arms round her neck, gave her
a passionate hug, and then rushed out of the room.
"What's the matter with the child?" thought the elder sister for a brief
moment, "she was so bright yesterday, and even this morning, but now
she's dull, although she tries to hide it. I wonder if I ought to give
her some more of her tonic. Well, well, whether Judy is grave or gay, I
cannot help feeling very happy at the thought of going out with Jasper
once more."
Hilda gave all directions with regard to the nice little dinner which
was to precede the play. She found a story book which Judy had not yet
read, and left it in the drawing room ready for her entertainment when
she was away; then, dressed also in her best, she went out with her
little sister, and, calling a hansom from the nearest stand, drove to
Burlington House.
As usual the great exhibition was crowded with all sorts and conditions
of men--the fashionable, the studious, the artistic, the ignorant, were
all to be found there. Judy had a passion for art. She was an artist by
nature, down to the tips of her sensitive little fingers. No sooner did
she find herself in the midst of all the pictures, than whatever cloud
made her a little graver than usual took to itself wings and flew away.
Her pertinent remarks, her eager criticism, shrewd, observant, often
strangely to the point, aroused the attention of some of the bystanders;
they smiled as the pretty child and the beautiful girl walked slowly by
together. Judy's intelligent face was commented on; the pathetic, eager,
wistful eyes seemed to make their way to more than one heart. Hilda,
thinking of her evening with Jasper, was quite her old self, and people
thought what a happy pair the two were.
In the third room they suddenly came face to face with Rivers.
"What a bit of luck!" he said, going up at once to them. "Now, Mrs.
Quentyns, I shall insist upon taking you to lunch somewhere. Miss Judy,
how are you? what do you think of our national picture fair?"
"Some of the pictures are lovely," she replied.
"Some!" he retorted, raising his brows. "You don't mean to say you are
setting yourself up as a critic."
"Judy is an artist by nature," said Hilda for her. "Hark to her remarks
with regard to the two dogs in that picture."
"They are meant to move, but they are perfectly still," said Judy; "if I
drew them, I'd"--she puckered her brows--"oh, I'd see that they were
gamboling about."
A young man, who was standing not far off, turned away with a red
face--he happened to be the unfortunate artist. Bitter hatred of Judy
filled his heart, for some of the people who were standing near tittered
aloud, and remarked for the first time that the dogs were wooden.
Rivers walked with Mrs. Quentyns and Judy through the different rooms:
he was an art connoisseur himself, and even dabbled in paint in a
dilettante sort of fashion. He drew Judy on to make remarks, laughed and
quizzed her for some ideas which he considered in advance of the times,
for others which were altogether too antiquated for him to pass
unchallenged.
"Oh, how Stanmore would like to hear you," he remarked, naming one of
the pet artists of the New Art school. "Why, Judy, you are a democrat;
we should have no Academy if we listened to you, you little rebel; but
then, I forgot, of course you are a mutineer--you are true to your
character through everything."
Hilda scarcely listened as the young man and the child chatted and
laughed together, her heart was dwelling altogether in the future. She
fancied herself even now driving to the play by her husband's side; she
saw the pretty dress she meant to wear; in her mind was reflected as in
a picture the image of her fair self, and the image also of the man who
was still in her heart lover as well as husband. No matter for the
present cloud, he was still her lover. She wondered if he would give her
another tender glance, and if, as they sat side by side when the curtain
was up and the actors were moving about on the stage, he would touch her
hand with his, and show her in that way that she was forgiven.
"If he would only understand that I must keep both my vows," she
murmured, "if I could only get him to really comprehend that much, much
as I love my Judy, I would rather be alone with him--that is, I would
rather be alone with him, if it makes him unhappy to have my sweet
little Judy in the house. But how happy she is since I brought her home;
how gay her voice sounds now."
"I said you were a mutineer," laughed Rivers. "I know by your manner
that you will never put up with the inevitable."
"Don't!" said Judy; Hilda was looking at a lovely landscape, a friend
she knew came up and spoke to her. "Don't!" said Judy, turning and
looking full at the young man; her eyes were grave, her childish face
grew suddenly white and drawn. "Perhaps I am going to give up being a
mutineer," she murmured.