Part 12 (1/2)
Hilda's face turned slightly pale.
”Of course, darling,” she said, looking up sweetly at her tall husband; ”but where are we to go on Sat.u.r.day night? You spoke of going home.”
”And so we are going home, my love--or rather we are going toward home; but as we have not taken a house yet, we must spend a week with the Malverns when first we get to England. I will send a line to my aunt, and tell her to expect us on Sat.u.r.day.”
Hilda said nothing more. She smothered the ghost of a sigh, and sitting down by the wood fire, which, notwithstanding the genial weather, was acceptable enough in their lofty room, began to open her letters. The Rectory budget was of course first attended to. It contained several inclosures--one from her father, which was short and princ.i.p.ally occupied over a review of the last new theological book he had been reading, one from Aunt Marjorie, and one from Miss Mills.
”None from Judy,” said Hilda, in a voice of surprise; ”she has only written to me once since we were married.”
She spoke aloud, and looked up at her husband for sympathy. He was reading a letter of his own, and its contents seemed to amuse him, for he broke into a hearty laugh.
”What is it, Jasper?” asked Hilda. ”What is amusing you?”
”Something Rivers has said, my love. I'll tell you presently. Capital fellow he is; if I get this brief I shall be in tremendous luck.”
Hilda opened Aunt Marjorie's letter and began to read. The old lady was a somewhat rambling correspondent. Her letters were always closely written and voluminous. Hilda had to strain her young eyes to decipher all the sentences.
”I must say I dislike poverty [wrote Aunt Marjorie]; you are well out of it, Hilda. It is my private conviction that your father has absolutely forgotten that his income has jumped down in a single day from three thousand three hundred and fifty pounds a year to the three hundred and fifty without the odd thousands; he goes on just as he has always done, and is perfectly happy. Dean Sharp sent him his last book a week ago, and he has done nothing but read it and talk of it ever since--his conversation in consequence is most tiresome. I miss you awfully, my love. I never could stand theology, even when I was surrounded by comforts, and now when I have to stint the fires and suffer from cold feet, you may imagine how unpleasant it is to me. My dear Hilda, I am afraid I shall not be able to keep Miss Mills, she seems to get sillier every day; it is my private conviction that she has a love affair on, but she's as mum as possible about it. Poor Sutton cried in a most heartrending way when she left; she said when leaving, 'I'll never get another mistress like you, ma'am, for you never interfere, even to the clearing of the jellies.' I am glad she appreciates me, I didn't think she did while she was living with us. The new cook can't attempt anything in the way of soup, so I have given it up for dinner; but your father never appears to miss it. The garden is looking horrible, so many weeds about.
The Anstruthers have all gone up to London--taken a house for the season at an enormous price. How those people do squander money; may they never know what it is for it to take to itself wings!
”By the way, Judy has not been well; she caught cold or something the day of your wedding, and was laid up with a nasty little feverish attack and cough. We had to send for Dr. Harvey, who said she had a chill, and was a good deal run down. She's up again now, but looks like a ghost with her big eyes. She certainly is a most peculiar child--I don't pretend to understand her. She crept into the room a minute ago, and I told her I was writing to you, and asked her if she had any message.
She got pink all over just as if she were going to cry, and then said:
”'Tell Hilda that I am not fretting a bit, that I am as happy as possible. Give her my dear love and heaps of kisses' (my dear Hilda, you must take them for granted, for I am not going to put crosses all over the letter).
”Then she ran out of the room as if she had nothing further to say--really a most queer child. Babs is a little treasure and the comfort of my life.
”Your affectionate old Aunt, ”MARJORIE.”
”Jasper!” said Hilda, in a choked sort of voice. ”Jasper!”
”What is it, my darling? Why, how queer you look, your face is quite white!”
”It is about Judy; she's not well!” said Hilda. ”I ought to go to her, I ought not to delay. Couldn't we catch the night mail?”
”Good gracious!” said Quentyns, alarmed by Hilda's manner. ”What is wrong with the child? If it is anything infectious----”
”No, no, it is nothing of that sort; but in any case, whatever it is, I ought to go to her--I ought not to delay. May I telegraph to say we are starting at once?”
”My darling, how excitable you are! What can be wrong with the child?”
”Oh, Jasper, you don't understand--Aunt Marjorie says----Here, read this bit.”
”I can't read that crabbed, crossed writing, Hilda.”
”Well, I'll read it aloud to you; see where it begins--'Judy has not been well----'”
Hilda read the whole pa.s.sage, a lump in her throat almost choking her voice. When she had finished, Quentyns put his arms round her and drew her to his heart.