Part 20 (1/2)
”Judy,” said Hilda--she turned eagerly, the old lovely color mantling her cheeks, and the brightness of hope filling her eyes. ”Isn't Jasper good, Judy? I have just heard from him--he says the furniture is coming in for your room to-day. We can go back to town as soon as ever Dr.
Harvey thinks you strong enough to be moved, my pet.”
”Which won't be this week,” interrupted Aunt Marjorie. ”It would be the sheerest madness. Has Jasper proposed such a thing, Hilda? If so, I can only say how like a man. In about a fortnight, this dear child may be the better for change of air.... I have no doubt too that Dr. Harvey will be pleased to have a London opinion about her. There may be a weakness of the heart's action. I never am easy about people who faint off suddenly. Now, Judy, why do you flush up? you know you oughtn't to listen when Auntie talks to Hilda about you. Go on reading your pretty story book, my love. Yes, Hilda, I should like the child to see a first-cla.s.s physician. You know your mother's heart was not strong. He will doubtless order cod-liver oil, but for my part I prefer cream.”
”I know something better than cream for Judy--don't I, my pet?” said Hilda, turning to her little sister with her bright smile.
”And so do I,” replied Judy. ”Oh, Hilda, to think of living with you in your own little house! Oh, Hilda, I'm _too_ happy--I am so happy that my heart aches. It aches with pleasure.”
Judy's thin arms were flung round her sister's neck. Her lips pressed Hilda's soft young cheek, her eyes looked into Hilda's. It seemed to them both at that moment that soul answered to soul.
”Now what nonsense this is,” said Aunt Marjorie in her fussy tones.
”Judy, I hope Hilda is not going to encourage you in silly sentimental talk of that kind. You say your heart aches with pleasure. Really, my dear, I have no patience to listen to you. I should like to know what a child like you knows about heart-aches--you, who have been brought up in what I may call the very lap of luxury. For, Hilda, I have made it the object of my life ever since poverty came to us, to prevent even the slightest shadow of its wings touching the children. They have had their excellent governess, and their warm schoolroom and snug bedroom. I cut down one of my own fur cloaks to give them really nice winter jackets, and I took special care that the schoolroom table should be as liberal as ever. It is impossible, therefore, for me to understand Judy's silly words about her heart aching.”
Aunt Marjorie left the room, and Judy still softly rubbed her cheek against Hilda's.
”But my heart did ache,” she said after a pause--”it aches with joy now, and it did ache--oh, it kept crying, it felt starved without you, Hilda.”
”I understand--yes, I understand,” replied Hilda.
”You don't mind what Aunt Marjorie says then?”
”Not about you, my own little love.”
”Hilda, I did really try very, very hard not to fret.”
”The effort was too much for you, my Judy; but never mind, the pain and the parting are all over now. Isn't it kind of your new brother--isn't it kind of dear, dear Jasper--to get the nice little room furnished and ready for you, darling?”
”Yes, Hilda. Has he gone in debt for the furniture? You told me long ago that the room would have been furnished and that I should have come to you, but there was no money left, and Jasper would not go in debt. Has he really gone in debt now, just to please me?”
”No, my love, no--we have managed. You must not ask inquisitive questions. All is right now, and we shall be very happy together.”
Dr. Harvey was highly pleased, when he heard that his little patient was going to London with her sister. He was a man with plenty of observation, and he could read between the lines much better than poor obtuse old Aunt Marjorie.
”You are the right physician for your little sister, Mrs. Quentyns,” he said. ”I prophesy that Miss Judy will become perfectly strong and well in a short time under your care. Yes, there will be nothing to prevent her traveling to town on Sat.u.r.day next, if you really wish it. The weather is extraordinarily mild for the time of year, and a change will do Judy more good than anything else.”
Hilda wrote a joyful letter to her husband that day.
”You are to expect us both on Sat.u.r.day,” she said. ”Oh, Jasper, how happy your letter has made me. How good--how really good you are. Please forgive me if I was a little hasty with you the other evening. I know you will never regret, darling husband, helping me to keep both my vows--the vow I made to you, and the vow I made mother. No one ever had a more loving wife than I shall prove to you, and no one ever had a dearer little sister than you will find my Judy when you really know her.”
”Her Judy, indeed!” murmured Quentyns, when he read his wife's letter at his breakfast-table on the following morning. ”Tiresome little piece--she'll never be _my_ Judy, however much she may be Hilda's. Well, I suppose I must make the best of a bad job, but if I had known beforehand that that wretched sentimental child was to be tacked on to us, I'd have thought twice.... No, I wouldn't though, I love Hilda well enough to bear some inconvenience for her sake; but if she thinks this step will really add to our happiness, she'll soon find her mistake.
Fancy her asking me to sell her engagement ring! I can never get over that. Things can't be quite the same again--it's impossible. Well, well, more than one friend has told me I'd wake from my dream of bliss some day. I have, with a vengeance--it has been something of a shock too.
Heigho! I am not going to _look_ like defeat, anyhow. Of course, too, I'll be just the same to Hilda outwardly. Ah, there's Susan--I'd better speak to her and get her to tell cook. This is Thursday--they'll be here in two days.”
”Susan,” as the neat parlor-maid entered the room, ”I have had a letter from your mistress. She is coming home on Sat.u.r.day, and will bring little Miss Merton with her. Have the things come from Shoolbred's yet?”
”The furniture, sir, for the spare room? Yes, it arrived yesterday, and the man is coming to lay down the carpet and put up the curtains this morning.”
”Well, Susan, you get the room ready, and have the bed well aired, and tell me if there's anything more wanted--the child has been ill, and she'll require every comfort. Mrs. Quentyns will wish the room to look as nice as possible. I know nothing about these matters--see to it, Susan, will you?”