Quentyns talked on in his satisfied, joyous tones. He had won the victory, and could afford to be very gracious and generous. Hilda felt as if a band of iron had closed round her heart. She was too gentle and sweet in her nature to be long angry with her husband. Her face was a little paler than usual, however, and her eyes had a weary look in them.
Rivers, who was a very keen observer of human nature, noticed the silent depression which hung over her, but Hilda's husband failed to observe it.
"I can easily manage her," he muttered to himself; "it would have been beyond all reason to have had her absent from our first little dinner just because a child had fainted. Pshaw!—I can see that Hilda is going to be painfully fanciful; it all comes from having lived so long in the wilds of the country. Well, I'll take her down to Little Staunton to-morrow, and be specially good to her, but she must get over these absurdities about Judy, or life will not be worth living."
The dinner was a success, and Hilda looked lovely. A certain dreamy and far-away expression in her eyes added the final touch to her beauty. When the men sat together over their wine, Rivers spoke of her in tones of rapture.
"You're the luckiest fellow in Christendom, Jasper," he said; and Jasper Quentyns, who looked up to Tom Rivers as the first of men, felt almost unduly elated.
"The lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places," so he muttered, and he forgot all about a sick and troublesome child, who at this very instant was counting the moments as they flew by, in her tired and weary eagerness to clasp her arms round Hilda's neck. Hilda, too, in the drawing room, was shedding silent tears, but what did that matter? for Jasper knew nothing about them.
Jasper and Hilda were both musical, and Tom Rivers liked nothing better than to listen to their voices as they sang duet after duet together. The songs they sung were full of noble sentiment. Their voices mingled until they almost sounded like one rich and perfect note, as they sang of love which is undying and self-sacrifice which is ennobling. Quentyns felt a glow of elation filling his breast as his eyes rested on his lovely wife, and the tormentings of Hilda's conscience were soothed, and she too partly forgot Judy.
Breakfast was served at an early hour next morning at Philippa Terrace, and Quentyns and his wife started for Little Staunton in time to catch the early train.
They arrived at the small way-side station not more than twenty minutes beyond the appointed time, and were met by Miss Mills, who was driving the village pony cart herself.
The governess addressed Hilda in a calm voice, but her inward excitement was very manifest. Jasper had talked cheerfully all the way down to Little Staunton, but Hilda had been almost silent. She felt oppressed—she dreaded she knew not what. Now, when she looked into Miss Mills' face, she felt her own turn pale.