"But I can't help my nature," she cried, tempestuously. "I can't bear to do things like other people, and when I get restless it seems as if I must go, and when I am angry I just have to say things—"
But the little grandmother shook her head. "You don't have to be anything you don't want to be, Judy," she said.
"But it seems so easy for Anne to be good," pursued Judy, "and so hard to me."
"It isn't always easy for Anne," said the little grandmother.
"Isn't it?" with astonishment.
"No, indeed. Anne has fought out many little fights of temper and wilfulness right here in this little room—she is a dear child."
"Indeed she is," agreed Judy, glancing at the serene face on the pillow.
"But Anne has learned to think for others. That is the secret, dearie. Think of your grandfather, think of your friends, and it will be wonderful how little time you will have to think of Judy Jameson."
"If I had my mother." Judy's lip quivered.
The little grandmother laid her old cheek against the flushed one.
"Dear heart," she said, "I can't take her place, but if you will try to talk to me as Anne does, maybe I can help—"
"I will," said Judy, and kissed her; but when the little grandmother had gone away, Judy could not sleep, and finally she got up and put on her red dressing-gown and sat by the window and looked out upon the waking world.
The robins were up and out on the dewy lawn, safe for once from
Belinda, who was curled up sound asleep on the foot of Anne's bed.
Becky with her head under her wing was on top of the little bookcase,
and the house was very quiet.
Suddenly through the mists of the morning Judy saw a carriage coming down the road.
It stopped at the gate and Launcelot leaped out.
Judy spoke to him from the window. "Hush," she said, "every one is asleep. I will come down."
As she met him at the lower door, he swung something bright and shining in front of her eyes.
"We found it," he whispered, excitedly, as Judy took her chain with a cry of delight. "We came across the gipsies on the Upper Fairfax road. The man tried to bluff it out, but the girl gave him away. While he was talking to Dr. Grennell she told me that he had it. I think she was mad at him about something, but she said he would kill her if he knew she told. So I just went on about the Judge and how he intended to put the police on the case if we didn't bring back the chain, and that he would be willing to hush it up if we got it, and so he handed it out—said it had been found on the ground after you left."
"Where is Dr. Grennell?" asked Judy.
"I dropped him at the manse," said Launcelot, "but I couldn't wait to bring this to you. I thought you would want to know about it."
"I couldn't sleep," explained Judy, "I was so afraid I had lost it."
"It's a funny coin, isn't it," said Launcelot. "Dr. Grennell knows a lot about such things, and he says it is a very old one."
"Yes," she told him. "Father found two of them on the beach in front of our house, 'The Breakers.' There have been others found on the Maryland coast near it, and they say that a Spanish vessel was shipwrecked off there years ago, and that now and then some of the money washes in. The fishermen along the shore dig holes in the sand, and occasionally they find one of these."
"Well, you had better leave it at home the next time you go on a wild goose chase."
"There won't be any next time," said Judy, with a sober face.
Launcelot looked up from the coin with a quick smile, which faded as she gave a hoarse little cough.
"Go into the house, child," he ordered, "you will take cold out here—"
"Oh," in that moment Judy was herself again, tempestuous, defiant, "don't be so bossy, Launcelot."
"Go in," he said again, but she threw up her head and lingered.
"What a beautiful morning it is," she said. "Look, Launcelot, the sun, it is like a ball of gold through the mist."
But Launcelot was looking at her—at the melancholy little figure in the trailing red gown, with the dark hair braided down on each side of the white face, and hanging in a long braid at the back.
"Go in," he said, for the third time, peremptorily. "You are tired to death, and you will be sick—"
CHAPTER XV
THE SPANISH COINS
Three weeks after Judy's exciting experience at the gipsy camp, an interesting party of travellers were gathered on the platform at Fairfax station.
There was a stately old man, imposing in spite of a tweed cap and sack coat. By his side stood a slender girl in gray, who coughed now and then, and near them, perched on a brand-new trunk, which bore the initials "A. B." was a small maiden, resplendent in a modish blue serge, a scarlet reefer, a stiff sailor hat of unquestionable up-to-dateness, and tan shoes!
And the resplendent maiden was Anne!
"You must let her go to the seashore with us," the Judge had said to Mrs. Batcheller. "Judy hasn't been well since she took that heavy cold the night she stayed out in the pasture—and I know the child pines for the sea, although she doesn't say a word. And I don't want her separated from Anne. She needs young company."
The little grandmother consented reluctantly. She was very proud, and although for years the Judge had tried to do something substantial to help his old friend in her poverty, he had so far been unsuccessful in breaking down the barrier of independence which she had set up.
One promise he had wrung from her, however, that when Anne was old enough, he was to send her away to school, where she would be fitted to take her place worthily in a long line of cultured people. This he had demanded and obtained by virtue of his friendship for her father and grandfather, and for the "sake of Auld Lang Syne."
"But Anne's things will do very well," said Mrs. Batcheller, when the Judge tried tactfully to suggest that he be allowed to send Anne's order with Judy's.
"No, they won't," the Judge had insisted, bluntly, "Judy's old home at The Breakers is somewhat isolated, but there will be trips that the girls will take together, and friends will call, and I can't have little Anne unhappy because she hasn't a pretty gown to wear."
"Oh, well," sighed Mrs. Batcheller, "if you look at it that way. Now in my day, if a girl had a sweet temper and nice manners, that was all that was necessary."
"Hum—" mused the Judge. "But I remember somebody in a little white gown with green sprigs, and a hat with pink roses under the brim."
"Judith and I had them just alike," smiled the blushing little grandmother.
"And you looked like two sweet old-fashioned roses," said the old man, "and you knew it, too. The world hasn't changed so very much, or girl nature."
"Perhaps not," confessed the little grandmother, her eyes still bright with the memories of youthful vanities; "perhaps not, and you may have your way, Judge, only you mustn't spoil my little girl."
"She can't be spoiled," said the Judge promptly, and went away triumphant.
And so it came about that in the trunk on which Anne sat were five frocks—two white linen ones like Judy's; a soft gray for cool days, an organdie all strewn with little pink roses, and an enchanting pale blue mull for parties.
No wonder that Anne sat on that trunk!
It was a treasure casket of her dreams—and with the knowledge of what it contained, she did not envy Cinderella her godmother, nor Aladdin his lamp!
"Amelia and Nannie are coming to say 'good-bye,'" said Anne, as two figures appeared far up the road, "they'd better hurry."
"Tommy is coming, too," said Judy. "I wish I could take them all with me."
"Why not invite them all down to The Breakers," suggested the Judge, who was eager to do anything for this fragile, big-eyed granddaughter, who was creeping into his heart by gentle ways and loving consideration, so that he sometimes wondered if the old, tempestuous Judy were gone for ever.
"Not now," said Judy, thoughtfully. "I just want you and Anne for a while, but I should love to have them some time—and Launcelot, too."
"Can you?" she asked Launcelot, as he came out of the baggage room with their checks in his hand, followed by Perkins with the bags.
"Can I what?" he asked, standing before her with his hat in his hand, a shabby figure in shabby corduroy, but a gentleman from the crown of his well-brushed head to the soles of his shining boots.
"Will you come down to The Breakers sometime?—I am going to ask Amelia and Nannie and Tommy, and I want you, too—"
"Will I come? Well, I should say I would—" but suddenly his smile faded. "I am awfully afraid I can't, though. There is so much to do around our place, and father isn't well."
Now in spite of the affectionate dutifulness with which of late Judy treated her grandfather, she still showed her thorny side to Launcelot.
"Oh, well, of course, if you don't want to come"—she snapped, tartly, and went forward to meet the young people, who were hurrying up, Amelia puffing and out of breath, Nannie with her red curls flying, and Tommy laden with a parting gift of apples, an added burden for the martyred Perkins.
Far down the road the train whistled. Anne was surrounded by a little circle of sorrowing friends. Even Launcelot was in the group, and Judy and the Judge stood alone.
"How they love her," said Judy, with a little ache of envy in her heart.
"How she loves them," said the wise old Judge. "That is the secret,
Judy."
Amelia had brought Anne a box of fudge, Nannie a handkerchief made by her own stubby and patient fingers, and Launcelot made her happy with a book of fairy-tales, worn as to cover, but with rich things within—a book of his that she had long coveted.
"By-by, little Anne," he said, with a brotherly pat on her shoulder. Then he shook hands with the Judge. "I hope you will have a fine time, sir," he said. Then as he and Judy stood together for a moment, he handed her something wrapped carefully in tissue-paper.
"These are for you," he said, a little awkwardly.
She unwound the paper and gave a little cry of delight.
"Violets, oh, Launcelot—how did you know I loved them?"
"Guessed it—you had them on your hat, and I liked that violet colored dress you wore."
"And they are so sweet and fragrant. Where could you get them this time of year?"
"In my little hothouse. I forced them for you."
But he did not tell her of the hours he had spent over them.
She was silent for a moment. "It was lovely of you," she said, at last, with a little flush and with a sweetness that she rarely revealed. "It was lovely of you—and I was so hateful just now."
She reached out her hand to him, and his grasp was hearty, reassuring.
"It wouldn't seem natural if you and I didn't fuss a little, would it,
Judy?" and then the train pulled in.
"All aboard!" shouted the conductor.
Anne and Judy went through the Pullman, and came out on the observation platform.
"Tell little grandmother to take good care of Belinda and Becky," called Anne, whose heart yearned for her pets.
"And all of you come and see me," cried Judy, hoping that she might win some of the love that was extended to Anne.
"We will," they cried, "we will."
"We will," echoed Launcelot, with his eyes on the violets pinned on
Judy's gray coat, "we will if we have to sit up nights to do it."
A flutter of handkerchiefs, a blur of gray coat and red one, a trail of blue smoke, and the train was gone, and life to those left in Fairfax seemed suddenly a monotonous blank. As Launcelot turned away from the station, he ran into Dr. Grennell, who was rushing breathlessly up the steps.
"Has the train gone?" panted the minister.
"Yes."
Dr. Grennell wiped his heated forehead.
"I am sorry for that," he said, "I wanted especially to see the Judge."
He had a letter in his hand, and he stood looking at it perplexedly.
"To tell the truth, Launcelot," he began slowly, "I have something strange to tell the Judge, and I didn't want him to get away before I saw him. It isn't a thing to write about—and oh, why did I miss that train—"
Launcelot waited while the minister stared wistfully down the shining track.
"Look here, Launcelot," he asked, suddenly, "do you remember that
Spanish coin of Judy's?"
"Well, I should say I did," replied the boy.
"It's the strangest thing—the strangest thing—oh, I'm going to tell you all about it, and see if you can help me out. Is there any place that we can be quite alone? I want to read this letter to you."
"There isn't a soul in the waiting-room," said Lancelot, "we can go in there. You'd better run on without me, Tommy," he called, "the doctor wants me. You can catch up with the girls if you hurry," and Tommy, who had eyed the pair with curiosity, departed crestfallen.
"I received this letter this morning," explained Dr. Grennell, as they sat down in the stuffy little room. "Read it. It's from an old friend of mine in Newfoundland—a physician."
The letter opened with personal matters, but the paragraph that the minister pointed out to Lancelot read thus:
"We have had a rather unusual case here lately. You know how often we have men brought to the hospital who have been shipwrecked, and as a rule there is little that is interesting about them—most of them are the type of ordinary seamen. Our latest case, however, was entered by the captain of a sailing vessel, who reported that they had picked the man up from a raft. That he was delirious then, and had never been able to tell them who he was or whence he came. He is still very ill and unconscious, and there is not a paper about him of identification. He is a gentlemen—I am sure of that, for his broken sentences are uttered in perfect English, and his hands tell it, too. As I have said, there isn't a letter or a paper about him, but around his neck on a silver chain we found the coin which I enclose. I know your fancy for odd coins, and so I send it, thinking perhaps you may give us some clue to our patient's identity."
Launcelot's eyes were bright with excitement as he finished reading.
"Let me see the coin," he begged, eagerly, and as the doctor handed it to him, he jumped to his feet.
"I thought so," he shouted, "it's a Spanish coin, like Judy's."
"Well," said the minister, quietly, but his hand beating against his knee showed that his agitation matched Launcelot's—"What then?"
"Why, the man must be Judy's father!" said Launcelot, and when he had thus voiced the doctor's thought, the two stared at each other with white faces.
"She always believed he was alive," said Launcelot at last.
"Pray God that it is really he?" said Dr. Grennell, reverently.
"And now what can we do?" asked the boy.
"We must not say a word to Judy yet. In fact I don't know whether we ought to tell the Judge. We musn't raise false hopes."
"Have you ever seen Captain Jameson?"
"We were at college together," said Dr. Grennell; "that is the way I happened to come to Fairfax. I got my appointment to this church through Captain Jameson and his father."
"Then couldn't you go on and see if he is really Judy's father?"
"By George," said the doctor, "of course I can. I can make the excuse that I want to visit my old friends. I need an outing, too."
"I wish I could go with you," said Launcelot, wistfully, as the two walked down the road, after having perfected plans for the doctor's trip. "I am getting awfully tired of this place, doctor. You see my life abroad was so different, and I feel as if I ought to be doing something worth while."
"Just now the thing that is worth while is for you to be a good son and stay here," said Dr. Grennell. "You can be nothing greater than that. And you are doing it like a hero," and his hand dropped affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
"Well, it's deadly dull," said the hero resignedly, as he thought of Anne and Judy speeding away to the coolness of the sea. But presently he cheered up. "It will be great if it does happen to be Captain Jameson," he said, "and just think if Judy hadn't run away we wouldn't have seen her coin, and if I had waited that morning she wouldn't have run away, and if I hadn't been cross I would have waited—how about that for a moral, Doctor."
"There is no moral," said the minister, "but all bad tempers don't turn out so well."
"It sounds like,
"'Fire, fire burn stick,
Stick, stick beat dog,
Dog, dog bite pig—'
doesn't it?" said Launcelot with a laugh, as they parted at the crossroads.
CHAPTER XVI
THE WIND AND THE WAVES
It was dark and raining when the travellers reached The Breakers, but a light streamed out from the doorway, and Mrs. Adams, the caretaker, met them on the step.
"I couldn't get any maids to help me," she explained to the Judge, as she led the way in, "but my sister is coming over in the morning, and Jim will build the fires—and I've set out supper in the hall."
"That's all right, Mrs. Adams," said the Judge, heartily, "Perkins will serve us, and you needn't stay up. I know you are tired after hurrying to get the house ready for us."
"Being tired ain't nothin' so that things suits," said Mrs. Adams, with an awed glance at the expert Perkins, who having relieved the Judge of his hat and raincoat was carrying the bags up-stairs under the guidance of Mr. Adams.
"Everything is just right, Mrs. Adams," said Judy, with eyes aglow. "I am so glad you set the supper-table in front of the big fireplace—we used to sit here so often."
Her voice trembled a little over the "we," for the sight of the little round table with its shining glass and silver had unnerved her. But she had made up her mind to be brave, and in a minute she was herself again, leading the way to her room, which Anne was to share, and doing the honors of the house generally.
The Breakers was a cottage built half of stone and half of shingles. It was roomy and comfortable, but not as magnificent as the Judge's great mansion in Fairfax. To Judy it was home, however, and when she came down again, she sighed blissfully as she dropped into a chair in front of the blazing fire.
"Listen, Anne," she said to the little fair-haired girl, "listen—do you hear them—the wind and the waves?"
Anne was not quite sure that she liked it—the moaning of the wind, and the ceaseless swish—boom, crash of the waves.
"I wish it was daylight so that I could see the ocean," she said, politely, "I think it must be lovely and blue and big—"
"It is lovely now," said Judy, and went to the window and drew back the curtain.
"Look out here, Anne—"
As Anne looked out, the moon showed for an instant in a ragged sky and lighted up a wild waste of waters, whose white edge of foam ran up the beach half-way to the cottage.
"How high the waves are," said little Anne.
"I have seen them higher than that," exulted Judy. "I have seen them so high that they seemed to tower above our roof."
"Weren't you afraid?"
"They couldn't hurt me, and it was grand."
"Supper is served, miss," announced Perkins, coming in with a chafing-dish and a half-dozen fresh eggs on a silver tray.
"I thought you might like something hot, sir," he said to the Judge with a supercilious glance at the cold collation which Mrs. Adams had provided, and with that he proceeded on the spot to make an omelette—puffy, fluffy, and perfect.
It was a cozy scene—the old butler in his white coat bending over the shining silver dish with the blue flame underneath. The polished mahogany of the table giving out rich reflections as the ruddy light of the fire played over it. The sparkling glass, the quaint old silver, Judy's violets all fragrant and dewy in the center, and at the head of the table the Judge in a great armchair, and on each side the two girls, the dark-haired and the fair-haired, in white gowns and crisp ribbons.
But Judy ate nothing, although Perkins tempted her with various offers.
"I'm not a bit hungry," she said, over and over again, and Anne, who was ravenous, felt positively greedy in the face of such daintiness.
"You are tired," said the Judge at last, as Judy sat with her chin in her hand, gazing at a picture of her father which hung over the fireplace—a full-length portrait in uniform. "Go to bed, dear." And in spite of protests, as soon as Anne had finished her supper, he ordered them both to bed.
"What are we going to do about her, Perkins?" the Judge asked in a worried tone, when he and the old servant were alone.
"Miss Judy, sir?"
"Yes. She isn't well, Perkins."
"She will be better down here, sir," said Perkins. "She is like her father, you know, sir—likes the water—"
"Perkins—" after a pause.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think—he is alive?"
It was the first time in years that the Judge had spoken of his son. Perkins stopped brushing the crumbs from the table, and came and stood beside his master, looking into the fire thoughtfully.
"Miss Judy thinks he is, sir," he said at last.
"I know—"
"And I find that it's the women that's mostly right in such things," went on Perkins. "A man now only knows what he sees, but, Lord, sir, a woman knows things without seein'. Sort of takes them on faith, sir."
"The uncertainty is bad for Judy," said the Judge, the deep lines showing in his care-worn face.
Perkins laid a respectful hand on the back of his chair. "You'd best go to bed yourself; sir," he said, gently, "you're tired, sir."
"Yes—yes." But he did not move until Perkins had drawn the water for his bath and had laid out his things, and had urged him, "Everything is ready, sir." Then he got up with a sigh, "I wish I knew."
"I wish I knew," he said, a half-hour later, as the careful Perkins covered him with an extra blanket. "I wish I knew where he is—to-night."
Outside the wind moaned, the rain beat against the windows and the waves boomed unceasingly. Perkins drew the curtain tight, and laid the Judge's Bible on the little table by the bed, where his hand could reach it the first thing in the morning; then he picked up the lamp and went to the door.
"I think wherever he is, he's bein' took care of, sir," he said, comfortingly, and with an affectionate glance at the gray head on the pillow, he went out and closed the door.
In the morning Anne slept soundly, but Judy slipped out of bed early, put on her bathing-suit and a raincoat, and with a towel in her hand went down-stairs.
She found Perkins in the lower hall.
"You are early, Miss," he said.
"Yes, I am going to take a dip in the waves," said Judy.
"You're sure it's safe, Miss?" asked Perkins anxiously.
"I have done it all my life," asserted Judy, "and it gives me an awful appetite for breakfast."
Perkins brightened. "Does it now, Miss," he asked. "Is there anything you would like cooked, Miss Judy—I could speak to Mrs. Adams."
But Judy shook her head. "I am not hungry now," she said gaily, as she went off, "but I know I shall have an appetite when I come in."
She tripped away to the bath-house, and as she came out of the door looking like a sea-nymph in her white-bathing suit and white rubber cap she saw Anne, also towel laden and rain-coated, flying down towards her.
"Why didn't you wake me up," scolded the younger girl. "Oh, Judy, isn't it lovely," and she dropped down on the beach, panting.
The morning sun cast rosy shadows over the sea, there was a touch of amethyst in the clouds, and the waves as they curled over the golden beach were gray-green in the hollows and silver-white on their crests.
"I just know I sha'n't dare to stick my toes into the water," said Anne with a shiver. "It is so—so big, Judy."
"You look just dear," declared Judy, as Anne dropped her raincoat and came forth in a scarlet suit, "that red suits you."
Anne clasped her hands. "Oh, Judy, does it," she sighed rapturously.
"Yes."
"You don't think I am getting vain, do you, Judy?" inquired Anne, anxiously, "but I do love pretty things."
"I think you are a goosie," said Judy with a little laugh, then she caught hold of Anne with impatient hands. "Come on in, little red bird," she urged, "it's lovely in the water."
Anne squealed and struggled, and finally waded in until the water came up to her knees.
"Don't take me any farther, Judy," she begged, and when Judy saw her frightened face, she let her go.
"Sit on the sand, then, and watch me, Annekins," she advised. "You will get used to this after a while and enjoy it as much as I do."
She was off with a run and a leap, and for fifteen minutes or more she was over and under and up and down on the waves like a snowy mermaid.
"And now for breakfast," said the young lady in white, as she dashed up the sands, with raincoat flying and towel fluttering in the breeze.
Ten minutes later two red-cheeked, wet-haired damsels rushed into the dining-room and kissed the Judge, who sat at the head of the table with his newspaper propped up in front of him.
"Bless my soul," he said, gazing at them over his spectacles, "are you really up?"
"We have been up for an hour," gurgled Anne, happily, "and in bathing."
But Judy did not stop for explanations, "Oh, waffles, waffles.
Perkins, I love you. How did you know I wanted waffles?"
"You said you would have an appetite, Miss," said the beaming Perkins, "and there's nothing that touches the spot on a cool morning like waffles."
He exchanged satisfied glances with the Judge as Judy finished her sixth section, having further supplemented the waffles with a dish of berries and a lamb chop.
"We are going down to the bay after breakfast," announced Judy.
"And I am going to take a book and read on the sand," planned Anne.
"Books, nothing," said Judy, slangily. "We are going to sail and catch crabs."
"Little red crabs?" asked Anne with interest.
"No, big blue ones, you goosie, and then Perkins will cook them for us.
Won't you, Perkins?"
"Anything you say, Miss," said Perkins, resignedly.
But it rained the next day, and after that they went sailing in Judy's own sailboat "The Princess," which she could manage as well as any man, and after that they drove to town with the Judge, so that it was over a week before the crabbing expedition came to pass.
The Breakers stood on a strip of land between the bay and the ocean. It was on a peninsula, but the connecting link with the mainland was many miles away, so that for all practical purposes the house was on an island, with the ocean in front and the bay behind, and all the pleasures that both made possible.
Anne was entranced with the delights of crabbing. It was very exciting to get the great rusty fellows on the line, tow them up to the top of the water, where the competent Perkins nabbed them with the crab-net.
Perkins caught crabs as he did everything else, expertly, and with dignity. His only concession to the informality of the sport was a white yachting cap and a white linen coat, and it was a sight worth going miles to see, to watch him officiate at a catch. The great vicious fellows might clash their claws in vain, for Perkins subdued them with a scientific clutch at the back that rendered them helpless.
"We are going to cook them as soon as we get home," Judy told Anne. "Perkins knows all about fixing them, and Mrs. Adams is going to give up the kitchen to us—it's lots of fun to eat the meat out of the claws."
"Do you want them—devilled, Miss?" and Perkins coughed discreetly before the word.
"Yes. In their shells, with parsley stuck in the top. They are delicious that way, Anne."
Anne had her doubts as to the deliciousness of anything so spidery-looking as those strange fish, but she said nothing.
"Is there anything Perkins can't do?" she asked Judy, as Perkins went on ahead, bearing the great basket of crabs, and the net.
"I don't believe there is," laughed Judy. "He is supposed to be grandfather's butler, but he won't let any one do a thing for grandfather, and he plays valet and cook half the time when the other servants don't suit him."
Once in the kitchen, Anne eyed the big basket shiveringly. The fierce creatures stared at her with protruding bead-like eyes, and in a way that seemed positively menacing.
"If they should get out," she thought, as she was left alone with them for a moment.
She never knew how it happened, but Perkins must have left the basket too near the edge of the chair on which he had placed it, for as she took hold of the cover to shut it, the basket tipped, and down came the living load, and in another moment, the desperate shell-fish were scuttling across the floor in all directions.
With a shriek Anne took refuge on top of the stationary wash-tubs.
"Come up here, Judy," she cried, frantically, and Judy who had reached the middle of the room, and was surrounded by pugilistic creatures before she realized the catastrophe, drew herself up beside Anne, and together they shrieked for Perkins.
Perkins came and saw and conquered as usual. The girls laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks to see the battle. One by one the crabs were picked up and dropped into a big kettle until at last it was full.
"And now you young ladies had best go out," said Perkins, firmly, "while I cook them."
It is well to draw a veil over the tragic fate of the kettleful of blue crabs, but when Anne next saw them they were beautifully boiled, and red—red as the scarlet of her bathing-suit.
All the afternoon the little girls, under Perkins' skilful guidance learned a lesson in expert cookery, and at last, as a dozen perfectly browned and parsley-decorated beauties were laid on a platter, Judy breathed an ecstatic sigh. "Aren't they beautiful?" she murmured.
"Yes, Miss, that they are," and Perkins surveyed them as an artist lets his glance linger on a finished masterpiece. He raised the platter to carry it to the dining-room, but as he turned towards the door he stopped and set it down quickly.
"What's the matter, sir," he asked sharply, "has anything gone wrong?"
The Judge stood on the threshold, his face white with excitement. In his hands was a letter, and his voice shook as he spoke.
"It's nothing bad, Perkins," he said, and Judy, as she faced him, saw that his eyes were bright with some new hope. "It's nothing bad. But I've had a letter—a strange, strange letter, Perkins—and I must go on a journey to-night—a journey to the north—to Newfoundland, Perkins."
CHAPTER XVII
MOODS AND MODELS
Anne and Judy were almost overcome by the mystery of the Judge's departure. Not a word could they get out of the reticent Perkins, however, as to the reasons for the sudden flitting, and the Judge had simply said when pressed with questions: "Important business, my dear, which may result rather pleasantly for you. Mrs. Adams will take care of you and Anne while I am gone, which I hope won't be long."
The day that he left it rained, and the day after, and the day after that, and on the fourth day, when the sea was gray and the sky was gray and the world seemed blotted out by the blinding torrents, Judy, who had been pacing through the house like a caged wild thing, came into the library, and found Anne curled up in the window-seat with a book.
"I came down here with all sorts of good resolutions," she said, fiercely, as she stood by the window, looking out, "but if this rain doesn't stop, I shall do something desperate. I hate to be shut in."
Anne did not look up. She was reading a book breathlessly, and not until Judy had jerked it out of her hand and had flung it across the room did she come to herself with a little cry.
"I shall do something desperate," reiterated Judy, stormily. "Do you hear, Anne?"
Anne smiled up at her—a preoccupied smile.
"Oh, Judy," she said, still seeing the visions conjured up by her book.
"Oh, Judy, you ought to read this—"
"You know I don't like to read, Anne." Judy's tone was irritable.
"You would like this," said Anne, gently, as she drew Judy down beside her. "It's about the sea." She opened the despised book at the place where she had been reading when Judy plucked it out of her hand. "Listen."
Judy did listen, but with her sullen eyes staring out of the window and her shoulders hunched up aggressively. When Anne stopped however, she said: "Go on," and when the chapter was finished, she asked, "Who wrote that?"
"Robert Louis Stevenson. He was a lovely man, and he wrote lovely books, and he died, and they buried him in Samoa on the top of a mountain. He wrote some verses called 'Requiem.' I think you would like them, Judy."
"What are they?"
Anne quoted softly, her sweet little voice deep with feeling, and her blue eyes dark with emotion.
"'Under the wide and stormy sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
"'This be the verse you grave for me:
"Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor—home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."'"
"'Home is the sailor, home from the sea—'" echoed Judy, under her breath. "How fine that he could say it like that, Anne. Tell me about him."
All the discontent had gone from her face, and she lay back among the cushions of the window-seat quietly, while Anne told her of the young life that had ended in a land of exile. Of a singer whose song had been stilled so soon, but who would not be forgotten as long as men honor a brave heart and a gentle spirit.
"Let me see the book," and Judy stretched out her hand, and Anne gave her "Kidnapped" unselfishly, glad to see the softened look in Judy's eyes, and as the morning passed and the two girls read on and on, they did not notice that the rain had stopped and that the parted clouds showed a gleam of watery sun.
And when lunch was announced, Judy laid her book down with a sigh, and after lunch, in spite of clearing weather, she read until twilight, and having finished one book, would have started another, if Anne had not protested.
"You will wear yourself out," she said, as the intense Judy looked up with blurred eyes and wrinkled forehead. "Let's have a run on the beach."
Judy never did anything by halves, and after her introduction to books that she liked, she outread Anne. And as time went on it was her books that soothed her in her restless moods, and because there were in her father's library the writings of the greatest men and the best men who have given their thoughts to the world, Judy was gradually molded into finer girlhood, finer womanhood, than could have come to her by any other association.
She read Stevenson through in a week, and then began on Ruskin; for her thoughtful mind, starved so long of food that it needed, craved solid things, and Judy, who knew much of pictures and paintings, found in Ruskin's theories a great deal that delighted and interested her.
"You'll never get through," said Anne, with a dismayed glance at the long rows of brown volumes high up on the shelves. "I don't like anything but stories, and Ruskin preaches awfully."
"You ought to like him, then," said Judy, wickedly, "you good little
Anne."
"Oh, don't," protested Anne, reproachfully, "don't call me that, Judy."
"Well, bad little Anne, then," said Judy, composedly, from the top of the step-ladder, where she was examining the titles of the books and enjoying herself generally.
"You're such a tease," said Anne with a sigh.
"And you are so serious, little Annekins," and Judy smiled down at her.
"I like Ruskin," she announced, later. "He's a little hard to understand sometimes, but he knows a lot about art. I am going to take up my drawing again. He says that youth is the time to do things, and a girl ought not to fritter away her time."
"No, indeed," said Anne, virtuously. "Only don't get too tired, Judy."
But it was Anne who was tired, before Judy's enthusiasm wore itself out, for she was pressed into service as a model, and she served in turn as A Blind Girl, A Dancing Girl, A Greek Maiden, Rebecca at the Well, Marguerite, and Lorelei.
The last was an inspiration. Anne perched on a rock around which the breakers dashed appropriately, with her hair down, and with filmy garments fluttering in the wind, combed her golden locks in the heat of the blazing sun.
"It's broiling hot out here, Judy," she complained as that indefatigable artist sat on the beach with her easel before her, in a blue work-apron, and with a dab of charcoal on her nose.
"Oh, you look just lovely, Anne," Judy assured her, with the cruel indifference of genius. "You're just lovely. I think this is the best I have done yet. Think what a picture you will make."
"Think how my nose will peel," mourned Anne, forlornly.
"Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet
Dort oben wunderbar,
Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,
Sie kämmt ihr gold'nes Haar."
sang Judy, whose residence abroad had made her familiar with many folk-songs.
Sie kämmt es mit gold'nem Kamme,
Und singt ein Lied dabei;"
"—Anne, you have the loveliest hair," she interrupted her song to say.
But Anne was tired. "I don't think that the Lorelei was very nice," she said, "to make men drown themselves just because she wants to comb her hair on a rock—"
"She didn't care," said Judy, sagely. "The men didn't have to let their old boats be wrecked."
"But her voice was so wonderful they just had to follow—"
"No, they didn't," declared Judy. "You just ask your grandmother. She says nobody has to go where they don't want to go, and I think she is right, and if those sailors had sailed away the minute they heard the Lorelei begin to sing they would have been safe."
"Well, maybe they would," agreed Anne, hastily, for Judy had stopped work to talk. "Judy, I shall fall off this rock if you don't finish pretty soon."
"All right, Annekins, just one minute," and Judy dashed in a drowning sailor or two, fluffed the heroine's hair into entrancing curliness, added a few extra rays to the sparkling comb, and held up the sketch.
"There," she said, triumphantly.
Anne slid from the rock, and waded in to look.
"It isn't a bit like me," she criticized, holding up her wet and flowing draperies.
"Well, you see I couldn't put in your dimples and your chubbiness, for although they are dear in you, Anne, they are not suitable for the purposes of art," and Judy stood back with a grown-up air and gazed upon her masterpiece. Then she caught Anne around the waist and danced with her on the beach.
"Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen
Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;
Und das hat mit ihrem Singen
Die Lorelei gethan."
"You wicked little Lorelei," she panted, as they sat down on the sand.
"I'm not wicked," said Anne, composedly, "and the next time you use me for a model, Judy, I wish you would get an easier place than on that old rock."
"You shall be Juliet in the tomb," promised Judy, "and you can go to sleep if you want to."
But she let Anne rest for awhile, and used Perkins as a model.
Her first sketch of him was very clever—a sketch in which the stately butler posed as "The Neptune of the Kitchen." He sat on a great turtle, with a toasting-fork instead of a trident, with a necklace of oyster crackers, a crown of pickles, and a smile that was truly Perkins's own.
That sketch taught Judy her niche in the temple of art. She was not destined to be a great artist, but she had a keen wit, and a knack of discovering fun in everything, and in later years it was in caricature, not unkind, but truly humorous, that Judy made her greatest successes, and achieved some little fame.
CHAPTER XVIII
JUDY KEEPS A PROMISE
"What's your talent, Anne?" asked Judy, one evening, as she lay on the couch reading "Sesame and Lilies." It was raining again outside, but in the fireplace a great fire was blazing, and rosy little Anne was in front of it, popping corn.
"Haven't any," said Anne, watching the white kernels bob up and down. "I can't draw and I can't play, and I can't sing or converse—or anything."
Judy looked at her thoughtfully. "Well, we will have to find something that you can do," she said, for Judy liked to lead and have others follow, and having decided upon art as her life-work, she wanted Anne to choose a similar path. "I wish I could take up bookbinding or wood-carving, or—or dentistry—"
"Why, Judy Jameson." Anne turned an amazed hot face towards her.
"Why, Judy, you wouldn't like to pull teeth, would you?"
"It isn't what we like to do, Ruskin says," said Judy, calmly, "it's usefulness that counts."
"Oh, well, I can wash dishes and dust and take care of old people and pets," said placid Anne, opening the cover of the popper and letting out delicious whiffs of hot corn.
Judy shuddered. "I hate those things," she said. "I couldn't wash dishes, Anne. It is so dreadful for your hands."
She went back to her book, and Anne poured the hot corn into a big bowl and salted it.
"Have some?" she asked the absorbed reader.
Without taking her eyes from her book, Judy stretched out her hand, then all at once she flashed a glance into the rosy face so close to her own.
"Anne," she said, almost humbly, "do you know you are more of a Ruskin girl than I am? He says that every girl, every day, should do something really useful about the house—go into the kitchen, and sew, and learn how to fold table-cloths, and things, like that. And you know all of those things—and how to help the poor—and I—I am always trying to do some great thing, and I never really help any one. Not any one, Anne—not a single soul—"
"But you are so clever," said little Anne.
"But people don't love you just because you are clever, and it isn't clever people that make others the happiest," and Judy dropped her book and gazed deep into the flames as if seeking there an answer to the problems of life.
"People love you, Judy."
"Sometimes they do, and some people—but my awful temper, Anne," and
Judy sighed.
"You don't flare up half as much as you used." Anne's tone was consoling. She had finished popping the corn, and she sat down on the floor beside the couch on which Judy lay, and munched the crisp kernels luxuriously.
"No, I don't," confessed Judy, "but it's an awful fight, Anne. You have helped me a lot."
"Me?" asked the rosy maiden in astonishment. "Why, how have I helped you, Judy?"
"By your example, Annekins," said Judy, sitting up. "You're such a dear."
At which praise the rosy maiden got rosier than ever, and shook her loosened hair over her happy eyes.
The firelight flickered on the beautiful dark face on the cushions, and on the fair little one that rested against Judy's dress.
"We are such friends, aren't we, Judy?" whispered Anne, as she reached up and curled her plump hand into Judy's slender fingers. "Almost like sisters, aren't we, Judy?"
"Just like sisters, Annekins," said Judy, dreamily, with a responsive pressure.
Outside the wind moaned and groaned, and the rain beat against the panes. "I have never seen such a rainy season," said Judy, as a blast shook the house. "But I rather like it when we are so cozy and warm and happy, Anne."
The pop-corn was all eaten, and Anne was gazing into the fire, half asleep, when suddenly she started up.
"What's that, Judy?" she cried.
Judy raised her eyes from her book.
"What?" she asked, abstractedly.
"That sound at the window."
"I didn't hear anything."
"It was like a rap."
"It was the rain."
"Well, maybe it was," and Anne settled back again. Presently her hand slipped and dropped, and Judy, feeling the movement, looked down and smiled, for little Anne was asleep.
Judy tucked a cushion behind the weary head, and was settling back for another quiet hour with her book, when all at once she sat up straight, listening.
Then she rolled from the couch quickly, without waking Anne, and went to the window and peered out. She could see nothing but the driving rain, but as she turned to leave there came again the sound that had startled her.
The window was a French one, opening outward. Very softly she unlatched it.
"Who's there?" she asked, wondering if she should have called Perkins.
"Come to the door," said a voice, and a dripping figure appeared within the circle of light. "Come out a minute. It's me—Tommy Tolliver."
Anne slept on as Judy went out and closed the door behind her.
"Why, Tommy," she said, trying to see him in the darkness, "how in the world did you get down here?"
"I have run away again," said Tommy, defiantly, "and I've come to you to help me, Judy."
"What!"
"You said you would help me, Judy. That's why I came."
"But—"
"Oh, don't try to get out of it," blazed Tommy, who was wet and tired and shivering, "you said you would. And if you back down now—well—" He left the sentence unfinished and his voice broke.
"When did I promise, Tommy?" asked poor Judy, in a dazed way.
"The day I came back to Fairfax."
It seemed like a dream to Judy, that day in the woods when she had first met the children of Fairfax,—Launcelot and Amelia and Nannie,—and she had entirely forgotten her reckless promise.
"Sit down," she faltered, "and tell me what you want me to do."
At the side of the house where they were sheltered somewhat from the rain Tommy outlined his plan.
"I want you to take me down the bay in your sailboat. I had money enough to get here, and if you can help me to get to the Point, a friend of mine has promised me a place on one of the ocean liners."
"But Tommy—"
"Don't say 'but' to me, Judy," and Judy recognized a new note in Tommy's voice. There was less of the old, weak swagger, and more determination. "I am going, and that's all there is to it."
"When do you want to start?" she asked, after a pause.
"The first thing in the morning, if you can get away," said Tommy.
"I can't go until evening. We are to spend the day with some friends of ours, the Bartons. But I can take you down by moonlight. It's a couple of hours' ride. I suppose we shall have to tell Anne."
"I hate to," said Tommy.
"Why?"
"Oh, Anne is such a good little thing—and—and—she believes in me—Judy."
"But if it is right for you to go, you shouldn't care—"
"I don't know whether it is right or not," said Tommy, doggedly, "and what's more, I don't care, Judy. I am going and that's the end of it."
"Well!" Judy stood up, shivering. "It's awfully cold out here, Tommy; you'd better come in."
"Are you going to help me?" demanded Tommy. "I sha'n't go in unless you are."
"What will you do?"
"Tramp on. Guess I can manage for another day. I've only had a slice of bread and a tomato to-day."
"Tommy Tolliver!" said Judy, shocked. "Why, you must be starved. I'll go right in and get you something."
"Are you going to help me to get away?" he insisted.
"I must think about it."
"But you promised."
"I am not sure that I exactly promised," hesitated Judy.
"You're afraid."
"I am not."
"Aw, you are—or you'd do it."
That was touching Judy on a tender point. She was proud of her courage—none of her race had ever been cowards.
Besides, as she stood there with the wind and the waves beating their wild song into her ears, all the recklessness of her nature came uppermost. It would be glorious to sail down the bay. The water would be rough, and the wind would fill out the white sails of the little boat, and they would fly, fly, and the goal for Tommy would be freedom.
"I'll do it," she said, suddenly. "I'll do it, Tommy. We Jamesons never break a promise, and I'm not afraid."
They decided not to tell Anne.
"It would just worry her," said Judy, decidedly, "and I can get some food and things out to you after Anne goes to bed, and you can sleep in the boat-house. We can start in the morning."
It was a wild scheme, but before they had finished they felt quite uplifted. In their youth and inexperience, they imagined that Tommy's last dash for liberty was positively heroic, and Judy went in, feeling like one dedicated to a cause.
She found Anne rubbing her eyes sleepily.
"Why, have you been out, Judy?" she gasped, wide awake. "You are all wet."
"It's fine on the porch," said Judy, putting her soaked hair back from her face. "I—I was tired of the heat of the room, and—it was stifling. Let's go to bed, Anne."
"Aren't you going to finish your book?" Anne asked, wondering, for Judy was something of a night-owl, and hated early hours.
Judy picked up "Sesame and Lilies," which lay open on the couch, and shut it with a bang.
"No," she said, shortly, "I am not going to finish it to-night—I don't know whether I shall ever finish it, Anne. I'm not Ruskin's kind of girl, Anne. I can't 'sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,' and I don't think it is any use for me to try."
Anne stared at the change that had come over her. "Well, you are my kind of girl," she said at last, and as they went up-stairs together, she slipped her hand into Judy's arm. "I love you, dearly, Judy," she said.
But Judy smiled down at her vaguely, for her mind was on Tommy, crouched out there in the rain, and in imagination she was not Judy Jameson, commonplacely going to bed at nine o'clock, but a heroine of history, dedicated to the cause of one Thomas, the Downtrodden.
CHAPTER XIX
PERKINS CLEANS THE SILVER
All the next day, Tommy skulked in the shadow of the pier and in the boat-house, whence during the morning Judy made her way laden with mysterious bundles and various baggage. At noon she departed for Lutie Barton's, leaving Anne, who had a cold, at home.
After Judy's departure, Anne wandered listlessly about the house. She tried to read, to sew a little, to pick out some simple tunes on Judy's piano, but thoughts of the little gray house, of the little grandmother, of Becky and Belinda, came between her and her occupations, so that at last, late in the afternoon, she sought the society of Perkins, who was in the dining-room cleaning silver.
"I believe I am homesick, Perkins," said Anne, perching herself in a great mahogany chair opposite him.
"Well, it ain't to be wondered at," said Perkins, as he picked up a huge cake-dish and began to work on it, energetically. "It ain't to be wondered at. You ain't ever been away from home much, Miss Anne."
"It is lovely not to have anything to do," said Anne. "That is, it is nice in a way, but do you know, Perkins, I sometimes just wish there were some rooms to dust or something, but you and the maids keep everything so clean," and Anne sighed a sigh that came from the depths of her housewifely soul.
"You might dip these cups in hot water and wipe them as I gets them finished," suggested Perkins, handing her several quaint little mugs, which he had placed in a row in front of him.
"Aren't they dear," Anne said, enthusiastically. "Why this one says
'Judith.' Is it Judy's, Perkins?"
"No, Miss, that was her great-grand-mother's, and that one with 'John' on it is the Judge's, and the one with 'Philip' is Miss Judy's father's—they are christening cups, Miss—six generations of them."
"Oh, how lovely," said Anne, and she handled them lovingly, dipping them into clear hot water, and polishing them until they shone.
"Judy never speaks of her father, lately," she said, as she placed the
"Philip" cup on the sideboard.
"No, Miss, but she thinks of him a lot," said Perkins, with a shake of his old head. "I saw her this morning, Miss, standing in front of his picture in the hall, and there were tears in her eyes, Miss, and then all at once she whirled around and ran away, and her face had a wild look on it, Miss."
"Do you know, Perkins," said little Anne, stopping work for a minute and speaking earnestly, "do you know that I think Judy would be different if she only knew something about him. The uncertainty makes her unhappy, and then she does reckless things just to get away from herself."
"Yes, Miss," said Perkins, "and there ain't a morning that she don't put fresh flowers in front of that there picture, and there ain't a night that she don't kiss her hand to it from the top of the stairs."
"I know," sighed Anne. "Poor Judy."
"When will the Judge be back?" she asked after awhile.
But at that Perkins shut up like a clam. "I don't know, Miss," he snapped. "It's best for you not to ask too many questions, Miss."
Anne flushed. "Oh, of course I won't, Perkins," she said, "if you don't like to have me—" and she was very quiet, until the old butler, with a glance at her troubled face, said, "I don't care how many questions you axes, Miss, but the Judge might."
And Anne smiled at him, with radiant forgiveness.
"Isn't all this silver a lot of care, Perkins?" she asked, to clear the air.
"It is that," answered Perkins, "and yet there isn't half as much of it as there is at the Judge's in Fairfax. Only the Judge keeps his locked up in a safe, all except the things we uses every day. But here they just puts it on the sideboard, where it is a temptation to burglars—with them long windows opening out on the porch, and the curtains drawn back half the time. I don't call it safe, Miss, I surely don't."
"But there aren't any burglars around here, are there, Perkins?" and
Anne stopped rubbing the cups to look at him anxiously.
"Nobody knows whether there is or not," grumbled Perkins. "There might be for all they know. It ain't fair to the servants, Miss, for to let them lie around loose this way. Mrs. Adams says so, too, but the Judge don't pay no attention to things since the Captain left, and Miss Judy is too young to bother."
"They wouldn't like to lose these cups," said Anne, as she finished the last one, and arranged them in a squat little row on the shelf.
"They wouldn't like to lose any of it," returned Perkins, putting a great soup-ladle back into its flannel bag. "It's all old and it's all family silver, and people ought to take care of it, and when the Judge comes back I am going to tell him so, Miss."
"Anne," said Judy, peeping in at the door, "I'm back, and Lutie Barton is with me. Come on in and see her."
"Oh, dear," said Anne, with a dismayed glance at her spattered apron,
"I look like a sight."
"Run up the back way and fix up," said Judy, "and I'll talk to her until you come down."
Lutie Barton brought with her the gossip of the town. There had been a dance at the big hotel the night before, a sailing party down the bay in the afternoon had been caught in a thunder shower, and all the girls' hats had been ruined, and there had been a burglary at one of the cottages in an outlying district.
Anne jumped when they said that. "What did they steal?" she faltered, with her conversation with Perkins fresh in her mind.
"Everything, my dear," said Lutie, who did everything by extremes, and who wore the highest pompadour, and the highest heels, and who had the smallest waist and the largest hat that Anne had ever seen, and who always used the superlative when telling a tale.
"They stole every single thing down to the very shoes, and the kitten from the rug."
"Oh," said Anne, thinking of Belinda, "the dear little kitten. What did they want with it?"
"It was a Persian, and this morning it came back, but the silver collar was gone from its neck, and they took even a thimble from a work-basket, and a box of candy and a cake!"
"Did they get anything valuable?" asked Anne.
"All of Mrs. Durant's diamonds and the family silver," said Lutie. "My dear, Mrs. Durant is ill, absolutely ill, and the worst of it is that she saw the burglar, and it frightened her so that she hasn't gotten over it yet."
"How dreadful," said little Anne, thinking of the great sideboard and all of the Jameson silver that she and Perkins had cleaned. "Oh, Judy, suppose they should come here!"
But Judy was standing by the window, watching a figure that slipped from the boat-house to the wharf with a bundle on his shoulder, the figure of a small boy, with his cap pulled low.
"Such things are like lightning; they never strike twice in the same place," she said, indifferently. "Don't go, Lutie."
"Oh, I must," gushed Lutie. "I was just dying to see you, Anne, for a minute, so I came with Judy. But I must go. They will think I am dead."
But she stopped to ask a giggling question. "Tell me about Launcelot Bart, Anne," she begged. "Judy happened to mention him, but she wouldn't tell me a thing. I think they must have an awful case, for she is too quiet about him for anything. Is he nice?"
"He is the nicest boy I know," said Anne, enthusiastically.
"Oh, oh," gurgled silly Lutie, shaking her finger at the two girls as they stood together on the top step of the porch. "Don't get jealous of each other, you two."
"Jealous?" asked Anne's innocent eyes.
"Jealous?" blazed Judy's indignant eyes.
"Don't be a goose, Lutie." Judy was trying to control her temper. "Anne and I aren't grown up yet, and I hope we never will grow up and be horrid and self-conscious. Launcelot is our friend, and I didn't talk about him because I had plenty of other subjects."
"Oh," murmured Lutie, subdued for the moment; but she recovered as she went down the walk. "Oh, good-bye," she gushed; "let me know when it is to be, and I will dance at your wedding."
"Anne," said Judy, darkly, as the high heels tilted down the beach, and the feathers of the big hat fluttered in the breeze, "Anne, she hasn't talked a thing to-day but boys—and she reads the silliest books and writes the silliest poetry, about flaming hearts and Cupid's darts. Oh," and Judy stretched out her arms in a tense movement, "I don't want to grow up—I want to stay a little girl as long as I can and not think about lovers or getting married, or—or—anything—"
"You are lover enough for me," said Anne.
"And you for me," said Judy.
And arm in arm they went into the house. But as they went through the darkening hall, Anne clung tightly to Judy.