"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.