GIANT-KILLER.
And the Prince, seeing that it was of no use to remonstrate,
bowed and retired.
--THE GOLDEN BRANCH.
Susan came home and told her mistress that Judy was spending the day
with Mr. Rivers.
"What an extraordinary thing for the child to do!" said Hilda.
"She said, ma'am, that Mr. Rivers asked her to lunch, and that you knew
about it."
"Yes; but why did she not say something to me when she was going out? It
is so unlike Miss Judy to keep a thing of that sort to herself."
Susan made no reply. She was no longer responsible, and was only too
anxious not to betray the child.
"Mr. Rivers says he'll take the best care of her, ma'am," she said,
after a pause.
"Well, go and take off your hat, Susan, and lay the lunch," said Hilda,
feeling still more puzzled, but not caring to pursue her inquiries any
further.
She had a sense of aggrievement and a feeling of added loneliness as she
sat down to her solitary lunch. She missed Judy, and wondered at her
sudden want of confidence; but soon the deeper trouble which Jasper's
conduct had caused returned to trouble her, and she forgot her little
sister in the sadness of her thoughts.
She spent a long and very lonely afternoon indoors, for she had not the
heart to go out, and besides, she expected Judy home every minute.
She thought it likely that Rivers would take her somewhere after lunch,
but surely he would bring her back to Philippa Terrace in time for tea.
Hilda ordered some cakes which she knew were special favorites of Judy's
to be ready for this meal; and then she sat in her pretty little drawing
room, and tried to divert her thoughts over the pages of the latest
novel which had arrived from Mudie's.
It was either not specially interesting, or Hilda found it difficult to
concentrate her attention. She flung the book on her knee, and sat
absorbed in what Judy and Babs called a brown study. She was startled
out of her meditations by Susan bringing in the tea-tray and the little
kettle and spirit-lamp.
"Did Mr. Rivers say when he would bring Miss Judy home?" she asked of
the maid.
Susan colored and hesitated slightly in her reply.
"No, ma'am; he said nothing at all about coming home," she answered.
Hilda noticed her hesitation, but did not wish to question her further.
After the servant left the room, however, she began for the first time
to feel both impatient and uneasy with regard to her little sister.
"If Judy is not here by six o'clock," she said to herself, "I will go to
Lincoln's Inn Fields in search of her. How extraordinarily impatient she
was to go out this morning; and how very odd of her to insist on going
to Mr. Rivers', and to say nothing at all to me about it; and then how
queer--how more than queer--her not having yet returned. My sweet little
Judy, the most thoughtful child who ever breathed--it is unlike her to
cause me anxiety of this sort."
Hilda did not care for the social little meal which was generally so
lively when Judy was present. Immediately afterward she ran upstairs to
put on her bonnet and jacket; and as she was going out, left a message
with Susan.
"If Miss Judy and Mr. Rivers come," she said, "please say that I have
gone to Lincoln's Inn Fields, as I felt anxious about the child being
so long away."
"Yes, ma'am," said the servant.
"Whistle for a hansom for me, please, Susan."
Susan did so; and half an hour afterward Hilda was making inquiries at
Rivers' chambers with regard to his whereabouts. The clerks there could
give her no definite information. Mr. Rivers had gone out with a little
lady soon after twelve o'clock, and had told them not to expect him back
that day.
"I shall find Judy at Philippa Terrace when I go home," thought Mrs.
Quentyns. "It was thoughtless of her not to tell me how long she would
be out--it was wonderfully unlike her. Still, of course, she will be at
home now."
But when Hilda returned no Judy was there to greet her; but her
husband's face was seen looking somewhat impatiently out at the
drawing-room window. He came at once to help his wife out of the cab,
and entered the house with her.
"Where were you?" he asked. "It is nearly time for dinner."
"I won't be a moment getting dressed, Jasper; but--but--I am anxious
about Judy."
Quentyns had meant to be specially nice and kind to Hilda after his
evening's pleasure, but he felt it impossible now to keep the glib,
sarcastic words back.
"I might have known when I saw that fretful look on your face, that Judy
was the cause. Now, what is her latest transgression?"
"Oh, there is a telegraph-boy," said Hilda eagerly. "What--what--oh,
_is_ there anything wrong?"
She rushed to the hall-door herself, before Jasper could prevent her.
Susan, coming into the hall to answer the imperative double knock, was
sent back to the kitchen regions, in a cross voice, by her master.
"Really, Hilda," began Quentyns, "your impetuosity is most undignified.
I must say that these kinds of scenes are----Now, what is the matter,
my love--tears again. A coming home of this sort is not the most
cheerful sort of thing, you must allow."
"Oh, Jasper, Jasper, I'm not even listening to you," said poor Hilda.
"What can be the matter? what can be wrong? Here's a telegram from Mr.
Rivers. He says--see what he says.
"'Little Staunton Rectory. Have brought Judy home. Will call and see you
soon after ten this evening. Rivers.'"
"Rivers!" repeated Jasper.
His voice grew thoughtful; he did not like Rivers, of all men, to be
mixed up in his domestic affairs. Rivers, at least, must keep him on a
pedestal, and know nothing of his weaknesses--of that infirmity of
temper which he struggled against, and yet, in Judy's presence, could
not conquer. He forgot all about Judy herself in his wonder as to how
Rivers had got mixed up in the matter.
Hilda had seated herself on the sofa, and still holding the open
telegram in her hand, was trying furtively to wipe away her fast-falling
tears.
"I wish you'd stop crying, Hilda," said her husband. "There's nothing to
alarm you in this telegram--nothing whatever. If Judy is with a man like
Tom Rivers, she's as safe as child can be."
"But she has gone home, Jasper; she has gone home to the Rectory,
without even telling me."
"Well, my dear, it's impossible for me to explain away the vagaries of
that most eccentric child. I presume, however, that Rivers has a key to
the mystery, and as he says he will call here after ten o'clock, we
shall know all about it then. No amount of discussion can explain it in
advance. So, Hilda, perhaps you will go upstairs and get ready for
dinner. I'm frightfully hungry."
Hilda rose wearily and left the room at once.
"I think I can guess something--just something of what it means," she
said to herself. "My little Judy--my brave little Judy!"
Judy's letter was lying hidden all this time under the large pin-cushion
on Hilda's dressing table, but as it was not seen, its contents, which
would have explained a good deal, were of course not known.
The dinner which followed this unhappy beginning of the evening was as
dismal and constrained as if poor "trumpery" were still present.
Quentyns, like most men who work hard all day, was particular about this
meal, and to-night of all nights cook had not sent up the soup to his
satisfaction, nor the _entree_ seasoned to his taste. It was all one to
Hilda just now what she ate, but Quentyns pushed his plate impatiently
away, and kept on referring to the excellent dinner he had had the night
before at the Star and Garter. He spoke of his evening as delightful,
and of the house of the new friend where he had slept as altogether
irreproachable.
Hilda felt that he was talking at her all the time, but she had not the
heart to reply to him. The dismal little meal came to a mournful end,
and the two went into the drawing room to wait for Rivers' arrival.
Hilda took up a handkerchief she was embroidering for Judy, and took
special pleasure in putting in new and exquisite stitches as her
thoughts centered themselves in dull wonder and pain round the child.
Quentyns became absorbed in the contents of a novel. He read for half an
hour--he was by no means in a good humor, and now and then his eyes were
raised to look over the top of the book at his wife. There was a patient
sort of suffering about her which irritated him a good bit, as he could
see no possible reason to account for it. He asked her one or two
questions, which she answered in an abstracted manner.
No, he certainly had not bargained for this sort of thing when he
married. Hilda was not only pretty, but she could be, when she liked,
sufficiently intellectual to satisfy his requirements. He was fastidious
and had peculiar views with regard to women. He hated the so-called
clever women, but at the same time he despised the stupid ones. To
please him a woman must have tact--she must quickly understand his many
moods. She must sympathize when he demanded sympathy, and when he showed
by his manner that he wished to be left alone, she must respect his
desires. Hitherto, Hilda had abundantly fulfilled his expectations. If
Judy had not been in the house, all that he had ever dreamed of in his
married life would have come to pass. But to-night, although Judy was
not there to intermeddle, Quentyns felt that, for all the good his wife
was doing him, he might as well be a bachelor at his club.
"My dear," he said with some impatience, and forgetting himself not a
little, "do you know that you have made precisely the same remark now
five times? I did not quarrel with its brilliancy the first time I heard
it, but on the fifth occasion I will own that it gave me a certain sense
of _ennui_. As I see that your thoughts are miles away, I'll just run
round to the club for a bit and find out if there is anything going on."
Hilda raised her eyes in some surprise. A certain expression in them
seemed to expostulate with Jasper, but her lips said nothing; and just
at that moment a hansom was heard to bowl up rapidly and stop with a
quick jerk at the door. A moment later Rivers entered the drawing room.
He came up at once to Hilda with the air of a man who has a message to
deliver.
"Judy hopes you got her note long ere this, Mrs. Quentyns."
"Her note--no; I have not received any," replied Hilda.
"She wrote to you this morning, and put the note under the pin-cushion
in your room."
"How romantic and Judy-like!" said Quentyns suddenly. "Quite the correct
thing, according to the old-fashioned novels. When the heroine elopes
she always leaves a note under the pin-cushion."
"How do you do, Jasper? I did not notice you until this moment," said
Rivers. He gave the other man a sharp glance, which suddenly made him
feel queer and small. "The only thing old-fashioned that I notice about
Judy," he said, "is her noble unselfishness. She has gone home
because--because--I think you can both guess why; an explanation would
only be disagreeable. She begged me to tell you, Mrs. Quentyns, that she
meant to be really _perfectly_ happy at home, and she hoped you and
Jasper would follow her example here. Poor little Giant Killer! she slew
an enormous giant to-day, and there are few people I respect as I do
that dear little soul. I saw her safely to the Rectory, as, when she
came to me, I thought it best to humor what was more a noble inspiration
than a child's whim. I will say good-night now."
Hilda scarcely said a word while Rivers was speaking. When he left the
room, however, she stood still for an instant, listening intently.
Jasper had gone out to see his friend into his hansom. Would he come
back? He did for a moment.
"Don't sit up for me, Hilda," he said; and there was a tone in his voice
which caused her heart to sink down low, very low indeed.
She heard the door slam behind him, and then she knew that she was
alone. The servants had gone to bed--to all intents and purposes she was
absolutely alone in the silent house.
So Judy's sacrifice was in vain. Judy had thought, by absolutely
sacrificing herself, that she could bring this husband and wife
together. It was not to be.
Hilda fell on her knees and buried her burning face in the sofa
cushions.
"Oh, Judy, little Judy!" she sobbed. "Oh, Judy, what shall I do? My pain
is greater than I can bear."
She knelt in this position for a long time. Her little sister's face was
distinctly seen in her mental vision; Judy seemed surrounded by a sort
of halo--but what of Jasper? Had all the love which united these two
hearts vanished like a dream? Was he never coming back to her? Would he
always misunderstand her? Oh, if she thought that, she would not stay
with him--she would go back to the Rectory and to Judy, and forget her
golden dream and turn back again to the old life. For three months she
would have been a wife. She would forget that time. She would own to
Jasper that she had made a mistake. She would be Hilda Merton once more.
Alas! alas! that could not be. Vows and ceremonies tied her. She had
stood beside the altar and given herself away. There was no going back
on that step. Jasper was not the Jasper of her dreams. He must have a
small mind not to understand Judy, and she had married him because she
thought his mind so big and his heart so great. After all, Judy was far
greater than Jasper.
"My little Judy," she murmured again, and then she sank down a pitiable,
weak, inconsolable figure on the hearth-rug close to the expiring fire.
She thought over the scenes of the last night and longed to have them
back again.
"If Judy's arms were round me, I should not feel so lonely," she
murmured. "Oh, Jasper, how can you turn from me? How can you fail to
understand that my heart at least is big enough to love both Judy and
you?"
The lamp burnt dimly and the fire went completely out. Hilda presently
fell asleep in the darkness, and now a moonbeam shining into the drawing
room and falling across her tired face made it look white and unearthly,
almost like the face of a dead girl. It was in this attitude that
Quentyns found her when he came back somewhere between one and two
o'clock.
His conscience was reproaching him, for Rivers, an old friend, had not
failed to give him a little spice of his mind; but he was just in that
irritable condition where repentance is almost impossible, and when
self-abasement only leads a man into further wrong-doing.
When he saw Hilda's tired face, he said to himself with a sort of laugh:
"If I don't encourage this sort of thing, I shall doubtless be more and
more of a tyrant in the eyes of my good wife and that precious
fastidious child and Rivers. Well, well, I cannot see the beauty of
voluntary martyrdom. If Hilda weren't quite such a goose, she would have
gone to bed two hours ago, instead of falling asleep here to the utter
disregard of her health and personal appearance."
So Quentyns, looking cross and uninterested, shook his wife not too
gently; spoke in a commonplace tone, out of which he purposely excluded
every scrap of emotion, and asked her how much longer she wanted to sit
up.
Hilda stumbled to her feet without a word. She went upstairs and to bed,
but although her husband quickly slept, she lay awake until the morning.
She came down to breakfast, looking tired and fagged. There were black
lines under her eyes, and when Quentyns asked her what was the matter,
she not only owned to a headache, but burst into tears.
When a man is thoroughly cross, nothing irritates him more than tears on
the part of his wife, and Quentyns now so far forgot himself as to rise
hastily from the breakfast table and leave the room, slamming the door
behind him. He put in his head a moment later to nod to his wife and say
good-by.
"If I'm late, don't wait dinner for me," he said, and then he left the
house. Hilda had plenty of time to wipe her tears away in the deserted
breakfast room. The pain at her heart was almost greater than she could
bear. Her gentle nature was stirred by what she considered gross
injustice on the part of her husband.
"He does not care for me any more," she muttered. "I thought him great
and brave and good. I know he is clever; I suppose he is great, and
perhaps even good; but I am too small and too little for him--I fail to
understand him, and he does not love me any more. Oh, if only little
Judy had stayed with me I should not feel as broken-hearted as I do at
present. if only little Judy had stayed with me, I should loneliness of
my life?"
At this moment Hilda's dismal meditations were interrupted by the sound
of carriage wheels, which not only came rattling down the little street,
but stopped at the hall door. She started up in a fright, pushed back
her disordered hair from her flushed face, and the next moment found
herself in the voluminous embrace of Jasper's aunt, Lady Malvern.
"My dear," exclaimed that good lady, "I must apologize for not looking
you up sooner, but I have been particularly busy; for Cynthia, my eldest
girl, has just got engaged and we are to have a wedding in the autumn
and all kinds of fuss; but I have not forgotten you, Hilda, and I have
just come to carry you off for the day. It is a lovely day, and we are
all going to drive to Richmond to picnic in the park. Run upstairs, my
love, and put on your hat and gloves. I mean to carry you off
immediately."
"But Jasper has just gone to town--he will be so sorry to have missed
you," said Hilda.
"Well, I suppose I can endure life even though I have missed Jasper,"
said Lady Malvern with a laugh. "In any case I want you, and so does
Cynthia. Cynthia has taken a great fancy to you, Hilda; so run away and
get ready. I will send a wire to your husband to come down and join us
later on. There now, will that content you, you poor, devoted little
soul?"
Hilda smiled and a faint color came into her cheeks.
"Run up to your room, my dear," said good-natured Lady Malvern. "Be as
quick as ever you can getting into the prettiest costume you have, for
we are to be quite a gay party, I can tell you. Now run off, dear, run
off, and pray don't keep me waiting a moment longer than you can help."
Lady Malvern was the sort of person who never could bear anyone to say
"no" to her, and Hilda at first unwillingly, but presently with a sort
of elation and even defiance which was altogether foreign to her gentle
nature, prepared to make herself smart for her unexpected gayety. She
went upstairs, pulled out one of her prettiest trousseau dresses, and,
with hands that trembled, began to array herself in it.
Meanwhile Lady Malvern sat perfectly still in the tiny little dining
room, with a somewhat troubled look on her good-tempered face.
"Now, what has Jasper been doing?" she said to herself. "That sweet
child doesn't look happy. Marks of tears round her eyes, flushed
cheeks--very low spirits. Dear, dear! this will never do. Not more than
three months from the wedding-day."
Lady Malvern had seen very little of her nephew since his marriage. She
knew nothing, therefore, about Judy; but she was just that fussy,
good-natured, hearty sort of body who could not bear anyone with whom
she came in contact to be miserable.
"I must set this right somehow or other," she said to herself. "Jasper
doesn't understand Hilda, and Hilda is wretched, and thinks, poor dear
little goose, that the sun will never shine again, and that life is
practically over for her. She does not know, how could she, poor
darling, how many rubs married people have to live through, and how
jolly and comfortable they are notwithstanding them. Well, well, I am
glad I called. I must set things right between this pair, whatever
happens."
Lady Malvern little guessed, however, that she personally was to have
very little to do with smoothing the rumpled rose-leaves in Hilda's and
Jasper's lives.
When Mrs. Quentyns returned to the little dining room the flush on her
cheeks and the softened look in her sweet eyes but added to her beauty,
and when she found herself bowling away through the pleasant spring air
in her kind friend's company, in spite of herself, her spirits could not
help rising.
Lady Malvern had a house in Hans Place, and there Cynthia and two
younger girls were waiting for them.
The day was a perfect one, very warm and summery for the time of year,
and the young people all agreed that it was by no means too early in the
season to enjoy themselves even in this _al fresco_ fashion.
They were to end with tea at the "Star and Garter," and they all started
off now for this day's pleasure in the highest spirits.
Hilda was quite young enough to enjoy such a proceeding immensely. As
space divided her from her little home in Philippa Terrace her spirits
rose, and now, if Judy had only been by her side, she would have felt
perfectly happy.
By the time they reached Richmond Park all trace of tears and sorrow had
left her charming face, and she was one of the brightest and gayest of
the company.
No one could make herself more useful than Hilda, and when her husband
appeared on the scene, he was a good deal astonished to see her flying
lightly about, ordering and directing the arrangements of the picnic
dinner. Her gay laughter floated to his ears on the summer breeze, her
cheeks were bright, her eyes shining. In short, she looked like that
charming Hilda who had won his heart in the old Rectory garden not a
year ago.
Hilda was busily helping to concoct a salmon mayonnaise, when, raising
her eyes, she met her husband's gaze. He smiled back at her a look of
approval and love, and her heart rose considerably.
There were other people present besides Jasper who thought Mrs. Quentyns
a very beautiful young woman. There were others waiting to show her the
most polite and gracious attentions, and these facts considerably
enhanced her value in her husband's eyes. In short, he began to fall in
love with his wife over again, and Judy for the time being was forgotten
by this pair.
The day passed all too quickly, and at last the moment arrived when the
little party must turn their steps homeward.
"You must both come home and have supper with us," said Lady Malvern to
her nephew and his wife. "Oh, yes, I shall take no denial; and now,
Jasper, will you drive Cynthia and her sister back to town? I mean Hilda
to accompany me."
Jasper was all smiles and good-humor. He was willing to accede to any
arrangement which could add to the pleasures of the day, and Hilda, in
whose heart a faint hope had lingered that she and her husband might
have gone home together, followed Lady Malvern to her carriage with a
little sigh. The whole party was soon driving home. Lady Malvern and
Hilda had a small victoria to themselves. As soon as ever they left the
rest of the party, the older woman turned and gave a full glance at the
girl by her side.
"Hilda," she said suddenly, "you look better than you did this morning."
"Oh, I feel better," she replied. "You have done me lots of good," she
continued, raising her eyes with an affectionate light in them to Lady
Malvern's kind face.
"I am delighted to have helped you, my love," replied the elder lady;
"and now, Hilda, I want to say something. You have been married very
little over three months. It is a very common illusion with girls to
imagine that married life is a time of perpetual bliss."
Hilda opened her lips to say something, but Lady Malvern interrupted.
"My dear," she said, "you must hear me out. Married life is not a bed of
roses, and the first year which a young couple spend together is
generally the hardest of all."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Quentyns. "Why the first year?"
"Because, my dear, the glamour is gradually being removed. The girl is
finding that the hero whom she married is a right good fellow, but still
that he is human; that he has his faults and his aggravations; that he
needs to be humored and consulted and petted, and to have his
smallnesses--yes, my dear, mark the word, his smallnesses--attended to.
The husband is making similar discoveries with regard to the lovely
angel whom he took to his arms. She, too, is mortal--affectionate, of
course, and sweet and womanly, and ten thousand times better than a real
angel would be to him, but still with her faults, her tempers, and her
fads. The young couple discover these things in each other during the
first two or three months of married life. All their future happiness
depends on how they both act, under the influence of these discoveries.
They have got to learn that, though they are made one by the priest,
they are both of them distinct individualities. If they are to be happy
together, they must both give and take. I know a married couple who are
now the happiest, prosiest, most attached old pair in the world, who
went through no end of storms during their first eventful year. But they
learned a lesson and profited by it. The wife does not now think her
husband the greatest hero that ever set foot on this earth, and the
husband does not call his wife an angel; but I think, if their love were
analyzed, it would be found greater, deeper, and more tender than that
early glamour which was love, but was not equal to the love tried by
fire which comes later in life. Now, my dear, you will forgive my little
lecture. If you had need of it, ponder my words; if not, forgive an old
woman for worrying you. Hilda, what a sweet, pretty little house you
have! I always knew that my nephew Jasper had good taste. I am so truly
glad that you have the same."
While Lady Malvern was speaking, Hilda pulled down her veil, and
struggled hard to keep the tears from her brown eyes. She could not
quite manage this, however, and Lady Malvern, giving her a half-glance,
saw that her eyelashes were wet.
She did not add any more in words, but she made up her mind to help the
young girl by every means in her power.
They drove on rapidly. The horses were fresh, and they were getting over
the ground with great rapidity, when a quickly approaching train
startled one of the horses. At the same time a man on a bicycle darted
round the corner, and before he could help himself, knocked against the
carriage. The double shock was enough for the affrighted horses. They
plunged, reared, and became unmanageable, and the next moment the little
victoria was overturned, and Lady Malvern and Mrs. Quentyns were flung
with some violence on the pavement. Lady Malvern was not severely hurt,
and she sprang almost immediately to her feet, but the fright and fall
had stunned Hilda, who lay white and still on the ground without any
attempt at movement. The usual crowd of course collected, and it was on
this scene that Quentyns, in high good-humor, and forgetting for the
time being that there was a crumpled rose-leaf in the world, suddenly
came with some more of the picnic party. As a matter of course, they all
drew up. Quentyns was driving a high dog-cart. He sprang to the ground
and ran into the midst of the crowd. Then for the first time he realized
what had happened. His young wife, looking as if she were dead, was
lying in Lady Malvern's arms. Lady Malvern was seated on a doorstep.
Some men were hastily coming forward with a shutter.
"My God!" exclaimed Quentyns; "is she dead?"
"No, my dear boy, no--only stunned," said Lady Malvern. "Here, take her
into your own arms, Jasper. You are stronger than I. Let her see your
face first when she opens her eyes. No medicine will be so reviving as
that."
Here a woman came up and spoke to Lady Malvern.
"I shall be only too pleased to have the young lady brought into my
house, madam," she said. "A very good doctor lives just round the
corner, and he can be summoned at once."
"Yes, yes; send for him immediately," said Quentyns.
He strode into the house with his light burden. Hilda was laid upon a
sofa, and in a few moments the doctor arrived. He felt her all over and
said that no bones were broken, and that no severe injury of any kind
had occurred, but both fall and shock had been very severe. He counseled
her being left undisturbed in her present condition until the morning.
"Then I will go home," said Lady Malvern. "You will look after her
yourself, Jasper?"
"Need you ask?" he replied. He followed his aunt to the door as he
spoke.
"Hilda had a narrow escape of her life," said Lady Malvern, looking full
at her nephew as she spoke. "How sudden and awful it all was! There were
we chatting together, and thinking no more of danger than if such a
thing did not exist, when all in an instant came that awful bolt from
the blue. I shall never forget the swinging of the carriage and the way
the horses looked when they plunged and kicked about, or the white
piteous face of your sweet little Hilda, who would not scream nor show
any outward sign of terror. I thought it was all over with both of us--I
did really, Jasper. I cannot tell you how thankful we ought to be that
things are no worse."
"You are sure then that Hilda is not in danger?" queried the young man
in a tremulous voice.
"No, no; what did you hear the doctor say, you silly boy? Perhaps the
best thing that could have happened to Hilda was this accident, dreadful
as it was for the moment. Perhaps--well, Jasper, I think you must know
what I mean."
"Has Hilda been talking about me?" asked Jasper, a wave of red mounting
to his brow.
"Talking about you?" replied his aunt, now thoroughly angry; "only in
the way that Hilda can talk of those whom she loves best on earth.
Jasper, you are the luckiest man in the world, and if you don't contrive
to make that sweet child the happiest woman, I for one will have nothing
to do with you again."
"No fear, no fear, if she loves me in that way," murmured Jasper.
He turned abruptly on his heel and went back to the room where his wife
lay. He was a very proud, reserved man, and even in moments of the
deepest agitation would scarcely reveal his real sentiments. But that
moment, when he had looked at his wife's white face and had thought that
she was dead, had shaken his whole nature to its very depths. He made a
discovery then that nothing in all the world was of any real value to
him compared with Hilda's love.
"I have acted like a brute to her," he murmured. "Rivers was right.
She's too good for me--she's fifty times too good for me. My God, how
white she looks as she lies there! Suppose the doctor is wrong. Why
doesn't she speak or move? Why do they make so little of this continued
unconsciousness? I think I'll go for some further advice. Oh, my
darling, my darling, if you are dead, if your sweet life has been taken,
I shall never forgive myself--never!"
But just then there was a faint stir of the heavily fringed lids which
lay against Hilda's white cheeks. The next moment the sweet brown eyes
were opened wide, and Hilda looked into her husband's face.
"What has happened?" she asked drowsily. "I don't remember anything.
Where are we?"
"Together, Hilda," he replied; "together. Does anything else really
matter?"
"Oh, no, no!" she said, with a catch in her voice.
* * * * *
Next day Mrs. Quentyns was so far convalescent as to be able to return
to the little house in Philippa Terrace. Jasper, of course, accompanied
her. They had found a good deal to say to each other, between the moment
when she had opened her eyes the night before and now. Both had some
things to confess--both had some words of forgiveness to crave from the
other. So complete now had been the interchange of soul and of love
between this pair that it seemed impossible that anything could ever
separate such warm hearts again.
"And it has been all Judy's doing," said Jasper as they sat that
evening in the little drawing room.
"What do you mean?" asked his wife.
"Why," he answered, "if Judy had not brought matters to a crisis by
going away, we might have drifted further and further apart. But now we
must have her back again, Hilda. She has fulfilled her mission, dear
little soul, and now she must have her reward."
"No," said Hilda, in a firm voice. "Judy shall have her reward, but not
by coming back. She did right to go. I could never, never have sent her
away, but she did right to go."
"Do you mean to tell me, Hilda, that you could be perfectly happy to
live without her?"
"With you," she said, laying her hand on his arm, and looking into his
face with her sweet eyes shining through tears.
He put his arms round her and kissed her many times.
"Jasper," said Hilda after a few minutes, "I think the first wrong step
that I took--the first beginning of that unhappy time--was when I lost
my temper down at Little Staunton and gave up my engagement ring."
"No wonder you lost your temper when I was such a brute about
everything," said Quentyns. "It was my fault."
"No, no; it was mine."
"Have you missed the ring, Hilda?"
"Missed it?" she held up her slender finger. "My heart has been empty
without it," she said.
"Then let me put it on again for you."
"Can you? Is--isn't it sold?"
"Of course not. Do you think that I could sell that ring?"
"But--but the furniture in Judy's room?"
"When I saw that you must have Judy with you, Hilda, I went into debt
for the furniture. Oh, never mind all that now, my darling--the debt is
paid in full a week ago, and I have the receipt in my pocket. Now I am
going upstairs to fetch the ring."