CHAPTER VI
A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY
At her cry of dismay, Perkins strolled over to take a look.
"They're burnt, Miss," he announced, bending over the pan.
"Of course they are," snapped Judy, "any one could see that, Perkins."
Perkins looked over her head, loftily.
"Yes, Miss, of course," he said, "but it's mostly always that way when there are too many cooks. I'm afraid there won't be enough to go around, Miss."
"Are these all?" asked Judy, anxiously.
"Yes," said Launcelot, "I cooked four and you burned six, and there are the Judge and Anne and Nannie and Amelia and Perkins and you and I to be fed."
"You needn't count me, sir," said Perkins. "I never eats, sir."
With which astounding statement, he carried away the charred remains.
"Does he mean that he doesn't eat at all?" questioned Judy, staring after the stout figure of the retiring butler.
Launcelot laughed. "Oh, he eats enough," he said, "only he doesn't do it in public. He knows his place."
"I wish he did," said Judy, dubiously. "Oh, dear, what shall we do about the fish?"
"There will be one apiece for the others," said Launcelot. "I guess you and I will have to do without—Judy—"
He spoke her name with just the slightest hesitation, and his eyes laughed as they met hers.
"And I said any one could cook!" Judy's tone was very humble. "What a prig you must have thought me, Launcelot."
"Oh, go and get some flowers for the table and forget your troubles," was Launcelot's off-hand way of settling the question, and as Judy went off she decided that she should like him. He was different from other boys. He was a gentleman in spite of his shabby clothes, and his masterfulness rather pleased her—hitherto Judy had ruled every boy within her domain, and Launcelot was a new experience.
It was a hungry crowd that trooped to the great gray rock where the table was spread.
"How beautiful you have made it look, Judy," cried Anne, as she came up, blissfully unconscious of a half-dozen new freckles and a burned nose.
Nannie May sniffed. "Fish," she said, ecstatically, "our fish, oh,
Amelia, don't things look good."
Amelia surveyed the table solemnly. She was a fat, rather dumpy girl of twelve. She was noted principally for two things, her indolence and her appetite, and it was in deference to the latter that she sighed rapturously as she surveyed the table. She had never seen anything just like it. The country picnics of the neighbors always showed an amazing array of cakes and pies and chicken, but these were here, and added to them were sandwiches of wonderful and attractive shapes, marvelous fruits, bonbons, and chocolates, and salads garnished with a skill known to none other in the village but the accomplished Perkins.
As her eyes swept over the table, they were arrested by the platter of fish. In spite of Perkins' overplentiful border of cress and sliced lemon—put on to hide deficiencies, the four fish looked pitifully inadequate.
"I caught four myself," said Amelia, heavily, pointing an accusing finger at the platter, "and Anne caught three and Nan three—there were ten."
Launcelot groaned. "I wish you weren't quite so good at arithmetic, Amelia," he said, "we shall have to confess—we burned the rest up—and please ma'am, we are awfully sorry."
They all laughed at the funny figure he made as he dropped on his knees before the stolid Amelia—but into Judy's cheeks crept a little flush—"I—" she began, with a tremble in her voice; but Launcelot interrupted; "we will never do it again," he promised, and then as they laughed again, he rose and stood at Judy's side.
"Don't you dare tell them that you did it," he whispered, and once more she felt the masterfulness of his tone. "I should have watched the fire—it was as much my fault as yours," and with that he picked up a pile of cushions, and went to arrange a place for her at the head of the table.
Amelia ate steadily through the menu. She was not overawed by Perkins, nor was her attention distracted by the laughter and fun of the others. It was not until the ice-cream was served—pink and luscious, with a wreath of rosy strawberries encircling each plate—that she spoke.
"Well," she said, "I don't know's I mind now about those fish being burned," with which oracular remark, she helped herself to two slices of cake, and ate up her ice in silence.
Nannie May was thirteen and looked about eleven. She was red-haired and fiery-tempered, and she loved Anne with all the strength of her loyal heart. As yet she did not like Judy. It was all very well to look like a princess, but that was no reason why one should be as stiff as a poker. She hoped Anne would not love Judy better than she did her, and she noted jealously the rapt attention with which Anne observed the newcomer and listened to all she said.
Judy was telling the episode of the ice-box. She told it well, and in spite of herself Nannie had to laugh.
"When I went in there were salads to right of me, cold tongue to the left of me, and roast chicken in front of me," said Judy, gesticulating dramatically, "and I was so hungry that it seemed too good to be true that Perkins should have provided all of those things. And just then the door slammed and my match went out—and there I was in the cold and the dark—and I just screamed for Anne."
"Why didn't you put the latch up when you went in?" asked Nannie, scornfully. "It seems to me 'most anybody would have thought of that."
Anne came eagerly to her friend's defence.
"Neither of us knew it was a spring latch," she said, "and I was as surprised as Judy was."
"Why didn't you eat up all the things?" asked Amelia, as she helped herself to another chocolate.
"I didn't have any light—" began Judy.
"Well, I should have eaten them up in the dark," mused Amelia, as
Perkins passed her the salted almonds for the sixth time.
"It was a good thing I didn't," laughed Judy, "or you wouldn't have had anything to eat to-day. Would they, Perkins?"
For once in his life Perkins was in an affable mood. The lunch had gone off well, there had been no spiders in the cream or red ants in the cake. The coffee had been hot and the salads cold, and now that lunch was over he could pack the dishes away to be washed by the servants at home, and rest on his laurels.
"I should have found something, Miss," he said, cheerfully; then as a big drop splashed down on his bald head, he leaned over the Judge.
"I think it is going to rain, sir," he murmured, confidentially.
"By George," gasped the Judge, as a bright flash of light and a low rumble emphasized Perkins' words, "by George, I believe it is.
"Oh, oh, oh," screamed Amelia, and threw her arms frantically around
Nannie.
"Don't be silly," said Nannie, and gave her a little shake.
"We shall have to run for it," said Launcelot, gathering up wraps and hats, as a sudden gust of wind picked up the ends of the tablecloth and sent the napkins fluttering across the ground like a flock of white geese.
"You'd better get the young ladies to the carriage, sir," said Perkins, packing things into hampers in a hurry.
"They will get wet. It's going to be a heavy wind storm," said the
Judge with an anxious look at Judy.
"Let's run for the Cutter barn," cried Anne, with sudden inspiration.
"Good for you, Anne," said Launcelot, "that's the very thing."
"Where is the Cutter barn?" asked Judy.
"Across that stream and beyond the strip of woods. Over in the field."
"Come on, Anne, come on. Oh, isn't this glorious. I love the wind. I love it, I love it." Judy's cry became almost a chant as she led the way across the little bridge and through the fast-darkening bit of woodland. The wind fluttered her white garments around her, her long hair streamed out behind, and her flying feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground.
Behind her came Anne, less like a wood-nymph, perhaps, but fresh and fair, and not at all breathless, then Nannie, bareheaded and with her best hat wrapped carefully in her short skirts, then Amelia, plunging heavily.
Launcelot waited to help Perkins with the horses and hampers and then he followed the girls.
The rain came before he was half-way across the stream, and the world grew dark for a moment in the heavy downpour that drenched him. There was a blaze of blue-white light, and a crash that seemed to shake the universe.
"They will be scared half to death," was Launcelot's thought as he forged ahead.
Just at the edge of the woods he came upon Anne and Judy. Judy had dropped down in a white huddled bunch, and Anne was bending over her.
"She ran too fast," she explained, while the rain beat down on her fair little head, "and she can't get her breath. Nannie and Amelia got to the barn before the rain came, but I couldn't leave Judy."
"I'm all right," gasped Judy, "you run on, Anne. I'm all right."
"Yes, run on, Anne," commanded Launcelot. "I'll take care of Judy, and you must not get wet," and with a protest Anne disappeared behind the curtain of driving rain.
Judy staggered to her feet and attempted to walk two or three steps.
"Stop it," said Launcelot, firmly, "you must not."
"But I can't stay here," cried poor Judy, desperately.
Her lips were blue and her cheeks were white, so that Launcelot wavered no longer. Without any warning, he picked her up as if she had been a child, and ran with her across the field.
"Put me down, Launcelot. Put me down." Judy's tone was imperious.
But she had met her match. Launcelot plodded on doggedly.
"I shall never forgive you," she sobbed, as they reached the door of the Cutter barn.
"Yes, you will," said Launcelot, and his lips were set in a firm line.
"I had to do it, Judy."
He laid her on a pile of hay in the corner.
Her eyes were closed, and her dark lashes swept across her pallid cheeks.
"She isn't strong," whispered the worried Anne, her tender fingers pushing back Judy's wet hair.
"No," said Launcelot, his deep young voice softening to a gentler key as he looked down at her, "she isn't. Poor little thing!"
Judy heard, and her lashes fluttered. "How good they are," she thought, remorsefully, and then she seemed to float away from realities.
When she came to herself, Launcelot had gone, and the three little girls were rubbing her hands and trying to get her to drink some water.
"Oh, Judy, do you feel better?" Anne whispered; "we were so frightened."
"Yes," murmured Judy, and the color began to come into her face.
"Launcelot went to see if he could get something from Perkins for you to take," said Anne; "he told us to build a fire in the old stove, but we have been so worried about you that we haven't done anything."
"Is there a stove?" asked Judy, listlessly.
"Yes. Mr. Cutter put it in here to heat milk for the lambs, and once when we had a picnic we made our coffee here."
"There isn't any wood," said Amelia, hopelessly.
"There is some up in the loft," said Nannie, "Don't you remember the boys put it there, so that no one but ourselves could find it?"
She went swiftly up the narrow steps, but came flying back in a panic.
"There's some one up there," she whispered, all the color gone from her face.
"Hush," said Anne, with her eyes on Judy.
Judy was not afraid. She was still weak and wan, but she was braver than the little country girls, and not easily frightened.
"It is probably a pussy cat," she scoffed.
"Or a hen," giggled Amelia.
Anne said nothing. The darkness, the crashing storm outside, and
Judy's illness had upset her, and she shivered with apprehension.
"No," Nannie flared, with a scornful look at Amelia and Judy, "it isn't a cat and it isn't a hen. IT sneezed!"
"Ask who's there," advised Judy from her couch.
"I don't dare," said Nannie.
"I don't dare," said Amelia.
So that it was little timid Anne, after all, who gathered up her courage and went to the foot of the stairs and said in a trembling voice:
"Please, who is up there?"
For a moment there was silence, and then some one said in sepulchral tones:
"You won't ever tell?"
The girls stared at each other.
"What shall we say?" whispered Anne.
"Say 'never,'" suggested Judy, wishing she were well enough to manage this exciting episode.
"NEVER," said the little girls all together.
There was a rustling in the hay in the loft, then cautious steps, and a figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
At sight of it, Amelia shrieked and Nannie giggled, but Anne ran forward with both hands out, and with her fair little face alight with welcome.
"Why, Tommy Tolliver, Tommy Tolliver," she said, "is it really you, is it really, really you?"
CHAPTER VII
TOMMY TOLLIVER: SEAMAN
Tommy shook hands with Anne, then sat down disconsolately on the bottom step.
"Yes," he said, "it's me."
After a moment's uncomfortable silence, Anne asked, "Didn't you like it, Tommy?"
Tommy looked gloomy.
"Aw," he burst out, "they thought I was too young—"
"Did you go as far as China?" questioned Amelia, eagerly.
"Of course he didn't, Amelia," said Nannie with a superior air; "he has only been away three weeks."
"Then you didn't get me any preserved ginger," pouted Amelia.
"How could I?" But Tommy looked sheepish, as the memory of certain boastful promises came to him.
"Anyhow," he announced suddenly, "I'm not going to give up. I am going to be a sailor some day—if I have to run away again."
At that Judy sat up and fixed him with burning eyes.
"Did you go to sea?" she asked, intensely.
"I tried to."
"How far did you get?"
"To Baltimore."
"And they wouldn't have you?"
"No. And I had used up all my money, so I had to come back."
"Have you ever been on the ocean?"
"No. Have you?"
"Yes. My father was in the navy."
"Gee—" Tommy drew near to this fascinating stranger.
"The next time you want to run away, you tell me," said Judy, and sank back on the hay, "and I'll help you."
"But, Judy," said horrified little Anne, "he isn't going to run away any more—he is going to stay here, and please his father and go to school—aren't you, Tommy?"
Tommy looked from the fair little girl to the dark thin one. Hitherto Anne had been his ideal of gentle girlhood, but in Judy he now found a kindred spirit, a girl with a daring that more than matched his own—a girl who loved the sea—who knew about the sea—who could tell him things.
"Aw—I don't know," he said, uncertainly. "I guess I can run away if I want to, Anne."
"No, you can't," cried Anne. "You ought not to encourage him, Judy."
"I'm not encouraging him," said Judy, but there was a wicked sparkle in her eyes.
Tommy saw it and swaggered a little. He had returned home in the spirit of the prodigal son. He was ready to be forgiven. To eat of the fatted calf—if he should be so lucky. If not, to eat humble pie. The sight of the familiar fields and roads had even brought tears to his eyes. But now—!
"A fellow can't be tied to a little old place like this all his life," he said, toploftically, "you can't expect it, Anne."
"I don't expect it," said little Anne, quietly, "but if you had seen your mother after you ran away, Tommy—"
At that Tommy lowered his head.
"I know—" he stammered, huskily, "poor little mother."
"Tell me about her," he said. And now he turned his back on the dark young lady on the hay.
But Launcelot's voice broke in on Anne's story. He came in all wet and dripping.
"How's Judy?" he began, then stopped and whistled.
"Hello," he exclaimed, "hello, Bobby Shafto."
"Oh, I say," said Tommy, very red.
"I thought you were on the high seas by now," said Launcelot.
"Well, I wanted to be," said Tommy, resentfully.
"I am glad you're back. We have missed you awfully, old chap," and
Launcelot slapped him on the shoulder in hearty greeting.
"How is Judy?" he asked.
"Better, thank you," said the young lady in the corner. "Tommy was a tonic and came just in time."
"Well, I am glad you found some kind of tonic. Perkins didn't have a thing but some mustard and red pepper, and I was feeling for you if we had to dose you with either of those."
Judy started to laugh, but stopped suddenly.
"I forgot," she said, "I am mad at you—"
"Oh, no, you're not."
"But I am—"
"Because I carried you across the field when you didn't want me to?"
"Yes."
"My child," advised Launcelot, "don't be silly."
"Oh," raged Judy, and turned her back to him.
Launcelot looked down at her for a moment.
"You know that tree where you fainted?" he asked.
A little shrug of Judy's shoulder was the only answer.
"Well, it was struck by lightning before I got back—"
"Really—?" Judy was facing him now, breathless with interest.
"Really, Judy." His face was very grave.
"Oh, oh," she wailed, softly, "oh, and I might have been there—"
"Yes."
She shivered and sat up. Her wet hair, half braided, trailed its dark length over her shoulder. Her eyes were big, and her face was white.
"What a baby I was," she said, nervously, "what a baby, Launcelot—not to see the danger—"
"You trust to your Uncle Launcelot, next time, little girl, and don't get fussy," was the big boy's way of stopping her thanks.
"I will," she promised, and the smile she gave him meant more than the words.
"It has stopped raining," said Anne from the door.
The cool spring air blew across the fields softly, bringing with it the fresh smell of the sodden earth and the scent of the wet pines.
"The Judge will be here in a minute," said Launcelot; "he stayed in the carriage, and Perkins put up the curtains, so that they managed to keep pretty dry.
"I wonder if there will be room for me to ride home?" Tommy asked. "I am dead tired."
"I guess so. The Judge has the big wagon with the three seats. Pretty long tramp you had, didn't you?" and Launcelot looked at the boy's dusty shoes.
"Awful," said Tommy, with a quiver in his voice at the remembrance.
"Hungry?" questioned Launcelot, briefly.
"Awful," said Tommy again. "I haven't had a square meal for a week," and now the quiver was intensified.
Amelia clasped her hands tragically. "Oh, Tommy," she asked in a stricken tone, "didn't you almost die?"
But just then Tommy caught Judy's eye on him, and was forced to continue his character of bold adventurer.
"Oh, a man must expect things like that," he asserted. "Suppose it had been a desert island—"
"Or a shipwreck," said Amelia, "with bread and water for a week."
"Or pirates," ventured Nannie.
"Oh, pirates," sniffed the dark young lady on the hay; "there aren't any pirates now."
"Well, there are shipwrecks," defended Tommy.
"Yes, but they are not half as interesting as they used to be."
"And desert islands."
"A few maybe. But it is such an old story to hear about Robinson
Crusoes."
Tommy looked blank. He had always implicitly believed the marvelous tales of yarn spinners, and his soul had been fired by the thought of a life of adventure on the deep. He had talked to the little girls until they had accounted him somewhat of a hero and looked to him to perform great feats of bravery.
"I don't see any fun in going to sea, then," he said, dolefully, "if there ain't any pirates and shipwrecks and things like that—"
"It isn't those things that make you love the sea, Tommy," cried Judy. "It is the smell of it, and the wind, and the wide blue water and the wide blue sky. It is something in your blood. I don't believe you really love it at all, Tommy Tolliver."
She got up from the couch and began to gather up her wet hair, and only
Launcelot saw that she did it to hide her tears.
But Tommy was blind to her emotion. "Yes, I do," he asserted, stoutly.
"I do love it, and I bet I could find a treasure island if I tried."
Judy stamped her foot impatiently. "Oh, you couldn't," she blazed, "you couldn't, Tommy Tolliver; you could just go to work like a common seaman and get your tobacco and your grog, and be frozen and stiff in the winter storms and hot and weary in the summer ones. But if you really loved the sea you wouldn't care—you wouldn't care, just so you could be rocked to sleep by it at night, and wake to hear it ripple against the sides of the boat—"
"Gee—" said Tommy, open-mouthed at this outburst.
"Tommy," said Launcelot, with a glance at Judy's excited face and at the trembling hands that could scarcely fasten her hair, "you don't know a sailboat from a scow."
"I do," cried the indignant Tommy, switching his attention from Judy to
Launcelot, with whom he was deep in the argument when the carriage came.
The Judge read Tommy a little lecture as he welcomed him back, and then he ordered Perkins to give the runaway something to eat, and thereby tempered justice with mercy. And as Tommy had expected the scolding and had not expected the good things, it is to be feared that the latter made the greater impression.
"And how is my girl?" asked the Judge, beaming on Judy.
"All right," said Judy, and tucked her hand into his, "only I am a little tired, grandfather."
"Of course you are. Of course you are," said the Judge. "We must go right home. Perkins and I will sit on the front seat, and you can all crowd in behind—I guess there will be room enough."
"Oh, I say," said Launcelot, as Tommy and Anne sat down on the floor at the back, with their feet on the step, "that won't do. You sit with Judy, Anne."
But Anne shook her head.
"Tommy and I are going to sit here," she said. "He wants me to tell him all the news."
But that was not all that Tommy wanted, for when they were alone and unseen by those in the front of the wagon, he opened a handkerchief which he had carried knotted into a bundle.
"I brought you some things. They ain't much, but I thought you would like to have them."
There were a half-dozen pink and white shells, a starfish, and a few pretty pebbles.
"I picked them up on the beach," said Tommy, "and I thought you might like them."
"It was awfully good of you to think of me," said little Anne, gratefully.
"I wanted to buy you something," apologized Tommy. "There was some lovely jewelry made out of fish-scales, but I didn't have a cent to spare."
"I would rather have these, really, Tommy," said Anne, with appreciation, "because you found them yourself."
She tied them up carefully in her little clean white handkerchief, and then she folded her hands in her lap and told Tommy everything that had happened since he left home.
The sky was red with the blaze of the setting sun when the carriage started. Overhead the crows were flying in a straight black line to the woods to roost. As Anne talked on, the fireflies began to shine against the blue-gray of the twilight; then came darkness and the stars.
"It seems awfully good to be at home," confessed Tommy, as the lights began to twinkle in the nearest farmhouse, "if only father won't scold."
"I think he will scold, Tommy—he was awfully angry—but your mother will be so pleased."
"It was horrid sleeping out at night and tramping days." Tommy was unburdening his soul. It was so easy to tell things to gentle, sympathetic Anne. "And the men around the wharf were so rough—"
"I am sure you won't want to go again," said little Anne, "not for a long time, Tommy."
Tommy looked around cautiously. He didn't want Judy to hear, somehow.
He was afraid of her teasing laugh. Then he leaned down close to
Anne's ear:
"I'll stay here for awhile, Anne."
"I'm so glad, Tommy," said Anne, with a sigh of relief.
But as they drove into the great gateway, and the lights from the big house shone out in welcome, Tommy sighed:
"But I would like to find a treasure island, Anne," he said.
CHAPTER VIII
A WHITE SUNDAY
Anne was feeling very important. She was wrapped in a pale blue kimona of Judy's, and she had had her breakfast in bed!
Piled up ten deep at her side were books—a choice collection from the Judge's bookcases, into which she dipped here and there with sighs of deep content and anticipation.
At the end of the room was a mirror, and Anne could just see herself in it. It was a distracting vision, for Judy had done Anne's hair up that morning, and had puffed it out over her ears and had tied it with broad black ribbon, and this effect, in combination with the sweeping blue robe, made Anne feel as interesting as the heroine of a book—and she had never expected that!
Judy in a rose-pink kimona lay on the couch, looking out of the window. The peace of the Sabbath was upon the world; and the house was very still.
Suddenly with a "click" and a "whirr-rr," the doors of the little carved clock on the wall new open and a cuckoo came out and piped ten warning notes.
"Goodness," cried Anne, and shut her book with a bang, "it is almost church time, and we aren't dressed."
But Judy did not move. "We are not going to church," she said, lazily.
Not going to church! Anne faced Judy in amazement. Never since she could remember had she stayed away from church—except when she had had the measles and the mumps!
"I told grandfather last night that we should be too tired," explained
Judy, "and he won't expect us to go."
"Oh," said Anne, and picked up her book, luxuriating in the prospect of a whole morning in which to read.
She wasn't quite comfortable, however. She was not a bit tired, and she had never felt better in her life—and yet she was staying away from church.
But the book she had opened was a volume of Dickens' Christmas stories, and in three minutes she was carried away from the little town of Fairfax to the heart of old London, and from the warmth of spring to the bitterness of winter, as she listened with Toby Veck to the music of the chimes that rang from the belfry tower.
It seemed only a part of the tale, therefore, when the bell of Fairfax church pealed out the first warning of the Sunday service to all the countryside.
"Ding dong, din, all come in, all come in," the bell had said to Anne since childhood, and now it called her, until it silenced the crashing voices of the bells of old London, and she had to listen.
She laid down her book. "The church bell is ringing," she said to Judy.
"I hear it," said Judy, indifferently.
Anne stood up—with a sidelong glance at the enchanting vision in the mirror. "I think I ought to go," she hesitated.
Judy turned to look at her.
"Don't be so good, Anne," she said, with a teasing laugh; "be wicked like I am, just for one day—"
"You are not wicked."
"Well, I haven't a proper sense of duty."
"You have too. You just like to say such things, Judy, just to shock people."
Which shows that in two days, wise little Anne had found Judy out!
"Well, I'm not going to church, anyhow," and Judy settled back and closed her eyes.
Anne's book was open at the fascinating place where Toby Veck eats his dinner on the church steps; the deep rose-cushioned chair opened its wide arms in comfortable invitation. It was the little girl's first taste of the temptation of ease,—and she yielded. But as she picked up her book again, she soothed her conscience with the righteous resolve—"I will go to service this afternoon."
As she settled back, the girl reflected in the mirror looked at her.
"Your hair looks beautiful," said the reflection.
Anne dropped her eyes to her book.
Presently she raised them.
"If only the people in church could see," said the charming reflection.
Anne imagined the sensation she would make as she walked up the aisle. None of the girls in Fairfax or the country around had ever worn their hair puffed over their ears or tied with broad black ribbon. There would be a little flutter, and during church time the girls would look at nothing else, and it would be delightful to feel that for once she, little plain Anne Batcheller, was the center of attraction.
She dropped her book. "I think I will go, after all," she said virtuously, and Judy, not knowing her motive, looked at her with envy.
"You are a good little thing, Anne," she said, and at the praise Anne's face flamed.
She dressed hurriedly, in her one white dress, with a sigh for the becomingness of the blue kimona. When she was ready to tie on her old hat, she went to the mirror.
"It is because your hair is so pretty that you are going to church," said the reflection, accusingly.
"It is because of my conscience," defended Anne, but she did not dare to meet the eyes in the mirror, and she turned away quickly.
"You look awfully nice," Judy assured her, as Anne said "Good-by." "Take my blue parasol. It is on the parlor sofa. Go and be good for both of us, Annekins."
Anne ran down-stairs to the great dim room. There were four mirrors in the parlor, and each mirror seemed to say to the little girl as she passed, "It is because of your hair," and when she had picked up the pretty parasol, the mirrors said again, as she passed them going back, "It is because of your hair, oh, Anne, it is because of your hair that you are going to church!"
The hands of the big clock in the hall were on eleven as Anne opened the front door—and as she stepped out into the glare of sunshine, the church bell rang for the last time.
Anne loved the sweet old bell. Even when she had been ill, she had been able to hear just the end of its distant peal—like the ringing of a fairy chime, and when she was very little, the time she had the mumps, she had thought of it as being up in the clouds, calling the angels to worship.
She listened to it for a moment, standing perfectly still on the path, then she went back into the house, and laid the parasol carefully on the sofa. After that she ran quickly upstairs, untying her hat-strings as she went.
"What in the world are you doing?" asked Judy in amazement, as Anne pulled out hairpins, and took the big black bow from her looped-up hair.
"I was thinking too much about it," said Anne, soberly. "I shouldn't have heard a word of the sermon if I had worn my hair that way," and she went on braiding it into its customary tight and unbecoming pigtails.
"Well, of all things," ejaculated Judy, gazing at her spellbound.
But when Anne had gone, Judy stood up and watched her from the window. "What a queer little thing she is," she murmured, as the bobbing figure went up and down the village path, "what a queer little thing she is."
But somehow the actions of the queer girl distracted her mind so that she could not go back to her attitude of lazy indifference. She had thought Anne a little commonplace until now; but it had not been a commonplace thing, that changing from prettiness to plainness. She even wondered if Anne had not done a finer act than she could have done herself.
"She is a queer little thing," she said again, thoughtfully, and after a long pause, "but she is good—"
She went to her wardrobe and took out a white dress. Then she got out her hat and gloves and laid them on the bed. And then she sat and looked at them, and then she began to dress.
And so it came about that Fairfax church had that morning two sensations. In the first place Anne Batcheller came in late for the only time in her life, and in the second place, when the service was half over, a slender, distinguished maiden in a violet-wreathed white hat, slipped along the aisle, flashing a glance at Anne as she passed, and smiling at the delighted Judge as she entered the pew.
She fixed her eyes on the minister—and straightway forgot Anne and the Judge and Fairfax, for the minister was reading the 107th Psalm, and the words that fell on Judy's ears were pregnant with meaning to this daughter of a sailor—"They that go down to the sea in ships—"
Dr. Grennell was a plain man, a man of rugged exterior—but he was a man of spiritual power—and he knew his subject. His father had been a sea-captain, and back of that were generations of Newfoundland fishermen—men who went out in the glory of the morning to be lost in the mists of the evening—men who worked while women wept—men to whom this Psalm had been the song of hope—women to whom it had been the song of comforting.
To Judy the sea meant her father. It had taken him away, it would bring him back some day, and was not this man saying it, as he ended his sermon, "He bringeth them into their desired haven—"?
Dr. Grennell had never seen Judy, but he knew the tragedy in the Judge's life, and as she listened to him, Judy's face told him who she was.
She went straight up to him after church.
"I am Judy Jameson," she said, "and I want to tell you how much I liked the sermon."
The doctor looked down into her moved young face. "I am the son of a sailor," he said, "and I love the sea—"
"I love it—" she said, with a catch of her breath, "and it is not cruel—is it?"
"No—" he began. But with a man of his fiber the truth must out; "not always," he amended, and took her hands in his, "not always—"
"And men do come back," she said, eagerly; "the one you told about in your sermon—"
He saw the hope he had raised. "Yes, men do come back—but not always,
Judy."
Her lip quivered. "Let me believe it," she pleaded, and in that moment, Judy's face foreshadowed the earnestness of the woman she was to be. "Let me believe that my father will come some day—"
"Indeed, I will," said the doctor, and there was a mist in his eyes as he clasped her hand, "and you must let me be your friend, Judith, as I was your father's."
"I shall be glad—" she said, simply, and then and there began a friendship that some day was to bring to Judy her greatest happiness.
That afternoon the Judge and Judy drove Anne home.
"It seems just like a dream," said Anne, as they came in sight of the little gray house, with Belinda chasing butterflies through the clover, and Becky Sharp on the lookout in the plumtree. "It seems just like a dream—the good times and all, since Friday, Judy."
"A good dream or a bad dream, Annekins?" asked Judy.
"Oh, a good one, a lovely dream, and you are the Princess in it, Judy," said the adoring Anne.
"Well, you are the good little fairy godmother," said Judy. "Isn't she good, grandfather?"
"Oh, I am not," said Anne, greatly embarrassed at this overwhelming praise, "I am not—"
"I never could have changed my hair," affirmed Judy.
"What's that?" asked the Judge.
"Oh, a little secret," said Judy, smiling. "Shall I tell him, Anne?"
"No, indeed," Anne got very red, "no, indeed, Judy Jameson."
There was a little pause, and then the Judge said:
"I am sorry the picnic was such a failure."
"Oh, but it wasn't," cried Judy, "it wasn't a failure."
Anne and the Judge stared at her. "Did you enjoy it, Judy?" they asked in one breath.
"Of course I did," said the calm young lady.
"But the rain," said the Judge.
"That was exciting."
"And your fainting—" said Anne.
"Just an episode," said Judy, wafting it away with a flirt of her finger-tips.
"And Amelia, and Nannie, and Tommy, did you like them?" asked Anne.
"Oh, Amelia is funny, and Nannie is clever, and Tommy is a curiosity.
Oh, yes, I liked them," summed up Judy.
"And Launcelot—"
Judy smiled an inscrutable smile, as she pulled her hat low over her sparkling eyes.
"He's bossy," she began, slowly, "and we are sure to quarrel if we see much of each other—but he is interesting—and I think I shall like him, Anne."
And then Belinda and Becky discovered them, and made for their beloved mistress, and conversation on the picnic or any other topic was at an end.
CHAPTER IX
A BLUE MONDAY
There was a noisy scrambling in the vines outside of Anne's window early on Monday morning, and the little maid opened her eyes to see Belinda's white head peeping over the sill, and Belinda's white paws holding on like grim death to the ledge.
"You darling," cried Anne, sitting up, "come here," and Belinda with a plaintive mew made one last effort, pulled herself into the room, and flew to her mistress' arms.
"Where's Becky?" asked Anne, wondering why the tame crow did not follow, for in spite of their constant feuds, the two pets were inseparable.
Belinda blinked sagely, while from a shadowy corner of the room came a sepulchral croak.
"Are you there, Becky?" called Anne, peering into the darkness, and with a flap and a flutter, Becky swooped from the top of the bookcase, where she had been perched for a half-hour, waiting for Anne to wake.
Anne's bookcase was the one thing of value in the little house. It was of rich old mahogany, with diamond-shaped panes in its leaded doors, and behind the doors were books—not many of them, but very choice ones, culled from a fine library which had been sold when ruin came to Anne's grandfather and father one disastrous year.
It happened, therefore, that Anne had read much of poetry and history, and the lives of famous people, to say nothing of fairy-tales and legends, so that in the companionship of her books and pets, she had missed little in spite of her poverty and solitary life.
"How good it is to be at home," she said, as the sunlight, creeping around the room, shone on the green cover of a much-thumbed book of French fairy-tales, and then slanted off to touch the edge of a blue and gold Tennyson; "how good it is to be at home."
"How good it is to be at home," she said again, as followed by Belinda and Becky, she came, a half-hour later, into the sunlit kitchen, where the little grandmother, smiling and rosy, was pouring the steaming breakfast food into a blue bowl.
"I was afraid you might find it dull," said the little grandmother, as she kissed her, "after the good times at the Judge's."
"Oh, I did have such lovely times," sighed Anne, blissfully. She had sat up late in the moonlight the night before, telling her grandmother of them. "But they didn't make up for you and Becky and Belinda and the little gray house," and she hugged the little grandmother tightly while Belinda and Becky circled around them in great excitement, mingled with certain apprehensions for the waiting breakfast.
"But I do hate to start to school again," said Anne, when she finished breakfast, and had given Belinda a saucer of milk and Becky a generous piece of corn bread.
"Are the children going to speak their pieces this week?" asked Mrs. Batcheller, as Anne tied on her hat and went out into the garden to gather some roses for the teacher.
"Yes, on Saturday," said Anne; "it's going to be awfully nice. I have asked Launcelot and Judy to come to the entertainment, and they have promised to."
"I am going to be 'Cinderella' in the tableaux," she went on, as her grandmother brought out the tiny lunch-basket and handed it to her, "and Nannie and Amelia are to be the haughty sisters. We haven't found any boy yet for the prince. I wish Launcelot went to school."
"He knows all that Miss Mary could teach him now," said the little grandmother; "his father is preparing him for college, if they ever get money enough to send him there."
"Well, if Launcelot's violets sell as well next winter as they did this, he can go, 'specially if his mother keeps her boarders all summer. He told me so the other day, grandmother."
"But he would make a lovely prince," she sighed. "Judy is going to lend me a dress. She has a trunk full of fancy costumes."
"I hope you know your lessons," said the old lady, as Anne, escorted by her faithful pets, started off.
"Oh, I studied them on Friday, before Judy came—how long ago that seems—" and with a rapturous sigh in memory of her three happy days, and with a wave of her hand to the little grandmother, Anne went on her way.
Tommy Tolliver came to school that morning in a chastened spirit. He had been lectured by his father, and cried over by his mother, and in the darkness of the night he had resolved many things.
But it is not easy to preserve an attitude of humility when one becomes suddenly the center of adoring interest to twenty-five children in a district school. From the babies of the A, B, C, class to the big boys in algebra, Tommy's return was an exciting event, and he was received with acclaim.
Hence he boasted and swaggered for them as on Saturday he had boasted and swaggered for Judy's admiration.
"You ought to go," he was saying to a small boy, as Anne came up, but when he caught her reproachful eye on him, he backed down, "but not until you are a man, Jimmie," he temporized.
During the morning session he was a worry and an aggravation to Miss Mary. The little girls could look at nothing else, for had not Tommy been a sailor, and had he not had experiences which would set him apart from the commonplace boys of Fairfax? And the boys, a little jealous, perhaps, were yet burning with a desire to be the bosom friend of this bold, bad boy, while the luster of his daring lasted.
And so they were all restless and inattentive, until finally Miss Mary, who had a headache, lost patience.
"You are very noisy," she said, "and I am ashamed of you. I am going to put a list of words on the board, and I want you to copy them five times, while I take the little folks out into the yard for their recess. The rest of you don't deserve any, and will have to wait until noon."
That was the first piece of injustice to Anne. She had been as quiet as a mouse all the morning, and Miss Mary should have seen it and not have punished the innocent with the guilty. But Anne was a cheery little soul and never thought of questioning Miss Mary's mandates, and so she went on patiently writing with the rest.
Miss Mary stopped in the door long enough to issue an ultimatum.
"I shall put you on your honor," she said, "not to talk. And any one who disobeys will be punished."
And she went out.
For a little while there was perfect decorum. Then Tommy grew restless. Six weeks out of school had made sitting still almost impossible. He wiggled around in his seat, and began to whistle, "A Life on an Ocean Wave."
That was a signal for general disorder among the boys. Without speaking a word, and so preserving the letter of the rule, if not the spirit, they, with Tommy as leader, went through various pantomimic performances. They hitched up their trousers in seamanlike fashion, they pretended to row boats, they spit on their hands and hauled in imaginary ropes, and as a climax, Tommy danced a hornpipe on his toes.
And then Anne spoke right out—"Oh, Tommy, don't," she said, in an agony of fear lest Miss Mary should come in and catch him at it.
But Miss Mary did not come, and the little girls giggled and the boys capered, and Anne in despair went on writing her words.
When Miss Mary came back finally, with the little people trooping in a rosy row behind her, twenty-five virtuous heads were bent over twenty-five papers.
"Did any one speak while I was out?" asked the teacher.
A wave of horror swept over Anne. She had not meant to do it, but she had spoken, and to try to explain would be to condemn Tommy and the rest of the school.
"Did any one speak?" asked Miss Mary again.
Anne stood up, her face flaming.
"I—I—did—" she faltered.
"Oh, Anne—" said Miss Mary, while the girls and boys dropped their eyes for very shame. "Oh, Anne, why did you do it—"
"I just did it—" stammered Anne, who would rather have died than have blamed Tommy, and Nannie, and Amelia, and the rest of her friends.
"Well, then," said Miss Mary, firmly, "I'm sorry, but you will have to sit on the platform the rest of the morning, and I can't let you take part in the Saturday's entertainment. I must have order and I will have it."
And that was Miss Mary's second piece of injustice. But then she had a headache, and children on Monday mornings are troublesome.
For one hour Anne sat with her head held high and her fair little face flushed and burning. But she did not cry. And Tommy, bowed to the ground by his sense of guilt in the matter, did not dare to look at the patient, suffering martyr.
It was thus that Launcelot Bart, coming in just before twelve o'clock to see Tommy, found her.
As soon as he got Tommy outside of the schoolroom he collared him.
"What's the matter with Anne?" he demanded.
"She talked in school," said Tommy, doggedly.
"I don't believe it."
"Well, she did, anyhow."
"Whose fault was it?"
"Hers, I suppose."
"You don't suppose anything of the kind. Anne Batcheller never broke a rule in her life willingly, and you know it, Tommy Tolliver."
The children were coming out of the schoolroom in little groups of twos and threes—the girls discussing Anne's martyrdom sympathetically, the boys with hangdog self-consciousness.
Inside the room, Anne, released from her ordeal, had gone to her desk and was sitting there with her head up. Her face was white now, the little lunch-basket was open before her, but the cookie and the apple were untouched.
Launcelot looked in through the window.
"Poor little soul," he murmured.
And then Tommy blubbered.
"It was really my fault, Launcelot," he confessed.
"What!"
Tommy explained.
"And you let Anne bear it—you let Anne be punished—oh, you miserable—little—little—cur," said the indignant squire of dames, in a white heat.
"Aw, what could I do?" whimpered Tommy.
"Go in and tell Miss Mary," said Launcelot.
"Aw—Launcelot—"
"Go in and tell Miss Mary!"
Tommy went.
But Miss Mary did not wish to be bothered.
"I made a rule and Anne broke it," she said, when Tommy tried to straighten things out, "and that is all there is to it. Don't talk about it any more, Tommy," and she dismissed him peremptorily.
When Tommy told Launcelot the result of the interview, the big boy set his lips in a firm line, and started off down the dusty road.
He went straight to town and to Judy.
"Oh, oh," said Judy, when she had listened to his tale of woe, "what a mean old thing she is—I hate her—" and her dark eyes flashed.
"I don't think Miss Mary is mean," said Launcelot, "but the children are restless, and she isn't very strong, and when she feels badly she takes it out on the scholars."
"But to punish Anne," said Judy, and her voice trembled, "dear little
Anne—"
"She might at least have listened to Tommy's explanation," said
Launcelot.
After a pause he said: "I came to you because I thought you might go and see Anne after school. It would do her a lot of good. She will be all broken up."
"I will go to school and get her," cried Judy, eagerly. "Is it very far?"
"I am afraid you couldn't walk," said Launcelot, doubtfully.
"I'll drive over in the trap," said Judy. "Grandfather says I can use
Vic whenever I want to."
"It was pretty mean of Miss Mary to pile it on, I must say," said Launcelot, as he rose to go. "She might have let Anne be in the entertainment."
"What?"
"She isn't going to let Anne be in it."
"Not be 'Cinderella'?" Judy's tone was ominous.
"No."
"Oh, oh, oh." Judy's hands were clenched fiercely. "I'll get even with her, Launcelot. I'll get even with that teacher yet."
Launcelot smiled at her vehemence.
"But you can't," he said.
"Can't I?" with a shrug of her shoulders.
"No."
"Wait," said Judy, and not another word could he get out of her on the subject.
The afternoon dragged along its interminable length, and Anne, with bursting head, thought that it would never end.
"Tick, tock," proclaimed the old school clock, as the hands crept slowly to one, to two, to three.
"In five minutes I can go," thought poor little Anne wildly, and just then the school-room door opened, and on the threshold appeared a self-contained young lady in pale violet gingham, and the young lady was asking for Anne Batcheller!
"Judy!" said Anne's heart, with a bound, but her lips were still.
Miss Mary had seen the Judge's grand-daughter at church the day before, and had been much impressed, and now when Judy asked sweetly if Anne could go, she gave immediate consent.
"Of course she may," she said. "Anne, you are dismissed."
But her eyes did not meet Anne's eyes as she said it, for Miss Mary's head was better, and she was beginning to wonder if she should not have investigated before she condemned Anne so harshly.
Twenty-four heads turned towards the window as Anne and Judy climbed into the fascinating trap with the fawn cloth cushions, and twenty-four pairs of lungs breathed sighs of envy, as Judy picked up the reins, and the two little girls drove away together in the sunshine.