In her heart of hearts she knew exactly the state Judy was in. The ardent soul was wearing out the delicate little frame. That suffering which Judy would not speak of, which she was too brave to show sign or whisper of, was making her body ill. If Hilda went to her darling, the suffering would cease. Love would shine all round Judy's starved heart, and she would soon be well and strong again.
"Yes, it is my manifest duty to go to her," whispered the wife to herself. "I will go to Little Staunton and nurse her for a few days, and when she is better she must come to London and live with me. Jasper won't like it—I know he won't like it, but he has really nothing to complain of, for I told him from the very first what Judy was to me. Yes, I must go, but I wish—I do wish that the train for Little Staunton left Waterloo at six instead of seven. I should be well on my journey before Jasper came back. Oh, Jasper, my darling, why do I say words of this sort, as if I were—as if I could be—afraid of you!"
Hilda dipped her pen into the ink and wrote the first words of her letter.
"My Dearest Husband:
"When you read this you will be surprised—"
A rather crooked dash of her pen finished this sentence—she was startled by a quick double knock at the front door. A moment later Susan, the neat maidservant, brought in a telegram on a salver.
"The boy is waiting to know if there is any answer," she said.
Hilda tore open the yellow envelope; her eyes rested on the following words:
"Rivers will dine with us. Have everything nice, and expect me home at 6.30.