A Young Mutineer Part 3

"Please answer me, Sutton, it is most important. Is it dreadful to be engaged to be married? and are people fickle? and are promises broken?"

"But, my dear----"

"Will you answer me, dear, kind Sutton?"

"Well, Miss Judy, well--anything to please you, dearie--it all depends."

"What does it depend on?"

"Taken from the female point of view, it depends on the sort the young man is; but, my darling, it's many and many a long day before you need worrit yourself with such matters."

"But I want to know," persisted Judy. "People do get married. You were married twice yourself, Sutton; you told me so once."

"So I was dear, and both my wedding gowns are in a trunk upstairs. My first was a figured sateen, a buff-colored ground with red flowers thrown over it. My second was a gray poplin. I was supposed to do very well with my second marriage, Miss Judy."

"Then you were twice engaged, and twice married," said Judy. "I don't want to hear about the wedding gowns, Sutton. I am rather in a hurry. I want you to tell me about the other things. What were they like--the being engaged, and the being married? Was the person fickle, and did he break his promise?"

For some reason or other Mrs. Sutton's face became so deeply flushed that she looked quite angry.

"I'll tell you what it is, Miss Judy," she said, "someone is putting thoughts into your head what oughtn't to do it. You are a motherless child, and there's someone filling your head with arrant nonsense. What do you know about engagements and--and disappointments, and dreams what proves but early mists of the morning? what do you know of fickleness and broken promises? There, child, you won't get any of that bad sort of knowledge out of me. Now you run away, dearie. There's someone been talking about what they oughtn't to, and you has no call to listen, my pet. There's some weddings happy, and there's some that aint, and that's all I can say. Run away now, Miss Judy."

CHAPTER III.

A QUESTION AND AN ANSWER.

When some beloved voice that was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence against which you dare not cry Aches round you like a strong disease and new-- What hope? what help? what music will undo That silence to your sense?

--E. BARRETT BROWNING.

Hilda Merton stood in a rather irresolute fas.h.i.+on in her bedroom.

Several people were coming to dine at the Rectory to-night, and she, as the young mistress of the establishment, ought to be in the drawing room even now, waiting to receive her guests. The Rector was a very wealthy man, and all those luxuries surrounded Hilda which are the portion of those who are gently nurtured and well-born. Her maid had left the room, the young girl's simple white dress was arranged to perfection, her lovely hair was coiled becomingly around her shapely head. She was standing before her looking-gla.s.s, putting the final touches to her toilet.

For some reason they took a long time to put. Hilda gazed into the reflection of her own pretty face as if she saw it not. Her brown eyes looked through the mirrored eyes in the gla.s.s with an almost abstracted expression. Suddenly a smile flitted across her face.

"I'll do it," she exclaimed. "I'll wear his white rose. He may think what he pleases. I--I do love him with all my heart and soul."

She blushed as she uttered these last words, and looked in a half-frightened way across the room, as if by chance someone might have overheard her.

The next moment the white rose was snugly peeping out from among the coils of her rich hair. Her dress was fastened at the throat with a pearl brooch. She was in simple white from top to toe.

"How late you are, Hilda," said Aunt Marjorie. "I was getting quite nervous. You know I hate to be alone in the drawing room when our visitors come; and really, my love, what a simple dress--nothing but a was.h.i.+ng muslin. Did not you hear your father say that the Dean and Mrs.

Sparks were coming to dinner to-night?"

"Of course I did, Aunt Marjorie. The cook also knows that the Dean is coming to dine. Now don't fret, there's a dear. I look nice, don't I?

that's the main thing."

"Yes, Hilda, you look beautiful," said Aunt Marjorie solemnly; "but after all, when you have a new pink chiffon and--and----"

"Hush, auntie dear, I see the Dean stepping out of his brougham."

The other guests followed the Dean and Mrs. Sparks almost immediately.

Dinner was announced, and the party withdrew to the dining room.

Hilda, in her white dress with her happy suns.h.i.+ny face, was the princ.i.p.al object of attraction at this dinner. There were two or three young men present, and they looked at her a good deal. Jasper Quentyns favored her with one quick glance; he was sitting at the far end of the table, and a very pretty girl was placed at his side. He saw the rose in Hilda's hair, and his heart beat quickly; his spirits rose several degrees, and he became so delightful and communicative to his neighbor that she thought him quite the pleasantest and handsomest man she had ever met.

Quentyns did not glance again at Hilda. He was satisfied, for he felt pretty sure that a certain question which he meant to ask would be answered in the way he wished.

The dinner came to an end, and the ladies withdrew into the drawing room. Two little figures in white dresses were waiting to receive them.

Babs trotted everywhere, and was universally admired, petted, and praised. Judy stood in the shadow behind one of the curtains and watched Hilda.

"Come out, Judy, and be sociable," said her sister.

"I don't want to talk. I am so happy here, Hilda," she replied.

"I do like spiders when they are very, very fat," sounded Babs' voice across the room.

"Oh, you droll little creature!" exclaimed a lady who sat near; "why, I should fly from a spider any distance."

"Perhaps you like earwigs better," said Babs.

"Earwigs, they are horrors; oh, you quaint, quaint little soul."

Babs did not care to be called a quaint little soul. She trotted across the room and stood by Judy's side.

"There's n.o.body at all funny here," she said in a whisper. "I wish I had my Kitty Tiddliwinks to play with; I don't care for fine ladies."

"It is time for you to go to bed, Babs," said Judy.

"No, it isn't. I am not going before you go. You always talk as if I were a baby, and I aren't. Judy, you might tell me now what it is to be engaged to be married."

"No, I can't tell you now," said Judy; "the gentlemen are coming in, and we mustn't talk and interrupt. If you won't go to bed you must stay quiet. You know if Aunt Marjorie sees you she'll send you off at once; now they are going to sing; ah, that'll be jolly. You stay quiet, Babs, and listen."

Four young men surrounded the piano. Jasper Quentyns was one; Hilda played the accompaniment. The four voices did ample justice to the beautiful glee--"Men were deceivers ever." The well-known words were applauded vigorously, the applause rose to an encore. Judy listened as if fascinated.

"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea and one on sh.o.r.e, To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so, But let them go ..."

"Yes, that's the right thing to do," said Judy, turning round and fixing her bright eyes on Babs.

"How funny you look," said Babs; "_you_ ought to go to bed."

"Come, Barbara, what is this about?" said Aunt Marjorie's voice. "You up still--what can Miss Mills be thinking of? Now, little girls, it is nine o'clock, and you must both go away. Good-night, Babs dear; good-night, Judy."

"Mayn't I say good-night to Hilda?" whispered Judy.