Part 1 (1/2)
A Young Mutineer.
by Mrs. L. T. Meade.
CHAPTER I
AN OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED LITTLE PAIR.
Sun and shower--sun and shower-- Now rough, now smooth, is the winding way; Thorn and flower--thorn and flower-- Which will you gather? Who can say?
Wayward hearts, there's a world for your winning, Sorrow and laughter, love or woe: Who can tell in the day's beginning The paths that your wandering feet shall go?
--MARY MACLEOD.
The village choir were practicing in the church--their voices, somewhat harsh and uncultivated, were sending forth volumes of sound into the summer air. The church doors were thrown open, and a young man dressed in cricketing-flannels was leaning against the porch. He was tall, and square-shouldered, with closely-cropped dark hair, and a keen, intelligent face.
When the music became very loud and discordant he moved impatiently, but as the human voices ceased and the sweet notes of the voluntary sounded in full melody on the little organ, a look of relief swept like a soothing hand over his forehead.
The gates of the Rectory were within a stone's throw of the church. Up the avenue three people might have been seen advancing. Two were children, one an adult. The grown member of this little group was tall and slight; she wore spectacles, and although not specially gifted with wisdom, possessed a particularly wise appearance. The two little girls, who were her pupils, walked somewhat sedately by her side. As they pa.s.sed the church the governess looked neither to right nor left, but the eldest girl fixed her keen and somewhat hungry eyes with a questioning gaze on the young man who stood in the porch. He nodded back to her a glance full of intelligence, which he further emphasized by a quick and somewhat audacious wink from his left eye. The little girl walked on loftily; she thought that Jasper Quentyns, who was more or less a stranger in the neighborhood, had taken a distinct liberty.
”What's the matter, Judy?” asked the smallest of the girls.
”Nothing,” replied Judy quickly. She turned to her governess as she spoke. ”Miss Mills, I was very good at my lessons to-day, wasn't I?”
”Yes, Judy.”
”You are not going to forget what you promised me?”
”I am afraid I do forget; what was it?”
”You said if I were really good I might stop at the church on my way back and go home with Hilda. I have been good, so I may go home with Hilda, may I not?”
”Yes, child, of course, if I promised, but we are only just on our walk now. It is a fine autumnal day, and I want to get to the woods to pick some bracken and heather, for your Aunt Marjorie has asked me to fill all the vases for dinner to-night. There are not half enough flowers in the garden, so I must go to the woods, whatever happens. Your sister will have left the church when we return, Judy.”
”No, she won't,” replied Judy. ”The practice will be twice as long as usual to-day because of the Harvest Festival on Sunday.”
”Well, if she is there you can go in and wait for her, as you have been a good girl. Now let us talk of something else.”
”I have nothing else to talk about,” answered Judy, somewhat sulkily.
The bright expression which gave her small eager face its charm, left it; she fell back a pace or two, and Miss Mills walked on alone in front.
Judy was not popular with her governess. Miss Mills was tired of her constant remarks about Hilda. She had a good deal to think of to-day, and she was pleased to let her two pupils amuse themselves.
Judy's hungry and unsatisfied eyes softened and grew happy when their gaze fell upon Babs. Babs was only six, and she had a power of interesting everyone with whom she came in contact. Her wise, fat face, somewhat solemn in expression, was the essence of good-humor. Her blue eyes were as serene as an unruffled summer pool. She could say heaps of old-fas.h.i.+oned, quaint things. She had strong likes and dislikes, but she was never known to be cross. She adored Judy, but Judy only liked her, for all Judy's pa.s.sionate love was already disposed of. It centered itself round her eldest sister, Hilda.
The day was a late one in September. The air was still very balmy and even warm, and Miss Mills soon found herself sufficiently tired to be glad to take advantage of a stile which led right through the field into the woods to rest herself. She sat comfortably on the top of the stile, and looking down the road saw that her little pupils were disporting themselves happily; they were not in the slightest danger, and she was in no hurry to call them to her side.
”Children are the most f.a.gging creatures in Christendom,” she said to herself; ”for my part I can't understand anyone going into raptures over them. For one nice child there are twenty disagreeable ones. I have nothing to say against Babs, of course; but Judy, she is about the most spoilt creature I ever came across, and of course it is all Hilda's fault. I must speak to Mr. Merton, I really must, if this goes on. Hilda and Judy ought to be parted, but of course Hilda won't leave home unless, unless--ah, I wonder if there is _any_ chance of that. Too good news to be true. Too good luck for Mr. Quentyns anyhow. I shouldn't be surprised if he is trying to get Hilda all this time, but--he is scarcely likely to succeed. Poor Judy! what a blow anything of that kind would be to her; but of course there is not the least chance of it.”
Miss Mills took off her hat as she spoke, and allowed the summer air to play with her somewhat thin fringe and to cool her heated cheeks.