Chapter 10 A Young Mutineer by L. T. Meade
WAITING
The days are clear,
Day after day,
When April's here,
That leads to May,
And June
Must follow soon.
Stay, June, stay!
If only we could stop the moon
And June!
It was an April day, but the weather was still cold at Little Staunton, and Aunt Marjorie thought it well to have a nice bright fire burning in Judy's bedroom.
Judy was sitting up in bed, her hair was combed back from her face, she wore a pink dressing-gown, the black shadows under her eyes were not so marked as yesterday, her firm little lips had an expression of extreme and touching patience. Judy's movements were somewhat languid, and her voice when she spoke had lost its high, glad pitch.
Aunt Marjorie kept coming in and out of the room. Miss Mills fussed with the fire, went to the window to look out over the landscape and to make the same remark many times.
"How late the spring is this year," said the governess, in her dreary monotone.
Babs stood with her back to Judy, sorting a cabinet full of curiosities. There was no shadow of any sorrow on Babs' serene face--her full contented voice prattled on interminably.
A drawing-board lay on Judy's bed, a sheet of drawing-paper, two or three pencils, and a thick piece of india-rubber lay by her side. For over an hour she had been drawing industriously. A pink color came into her cheeks as she worked, and Aunt Marjorie said to herself:
"The child is all right--she just needed a little rest--she'll soon be as well as possible. I'll go downstairs now, and write to Hilda about her."
Miss Mills also thought that Judy looked better. Miss Mills was still guilty of keeping up a somewhat one-sided correspondence with the person whom she so cordially hated--she had not heard from him for nearly a month, and thought that the present would be a good opportunity to write another letter to remind him of her existence. So, glancing at Judy as she went, she also left the room.
The door was shut carefully, and the two little sisters were alone. When this happened, Judy threw down her pencils and gave utterance to a faint, quickly-smothered sigh.
"Why do you do it so softly?" said Babs, not troubling herself to turn her face, but still keeping her stout back to her sister.
"Do what so softly?" asked Judy.
"Those groans to yourself. Aunt Marjorie won't believe that you ever groan, and I _know_ you do. She said you was as happy as the day is long, and I said you _wasn't_. You know you do sob at night, or you have she-cups or something."
"Look here," said Judy, "it's very, very, _very_ unkind of you, Babs, to tell Aunt Marjorie what I do at night. I didn't think you'd be so awfully mean. I am ill now, and Aunt Maggie would do anything for me, and I'll ask her to put you to sleep in Miss Mills' room, if ever you tell what I do at night again."
"I'll never tell if you don't wish me to," said Babs, in her easy tones. "You may sob so that you may be heard down in the drawing room and I won't tell. Look here, Judy, I have found your old knife."
"What old knife?"
"The one you saved that animal with last autumn, don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes, yes--the _dear_ little earwig. Do let me see the knife, Babs; I thought I had lost it."
"No, it was in the back of your cabinet, just under all the peacock's feathers. Wasn't the earwig glad when you saved her?"
"Yes," said Judy, smiling, "didn't she run home fast to her family? She was sticking in the wood and couldn't get out, poor darling, but my dear little knife cut the wood away and then she ran home. Oh, didn't she go fast!"
"Yes, didn't she?" said Babs, laughing. "I think earwigs are such _sweet_ little animals, don't you, Judy?"
"Insects, you mean," said Judy. "Oh, yes, I love them special because most people hate the poor dears."
"What are you drawing, Judy? What a queer, queer picture!"
"I'm going to call it 'Where the nasty fairies live,'" said Judy, "but I haven't finished it. Babs, how long is it since Hilda went away?"
"Weeks, and weeks, and weeks," replied Babs. "I has almost forgotten how long."
"Years and years, you mean," said Judy.
The little pink flush of excitement faded out of her cheeks, her eyes looked hollow, the shadow under them grew darker than ever.
There came a rush along the passage, and Aunt Marjorie, puffing with the haste she had used, but trying to walk slowly and to speak calmly, entered the room.
"Judy, my darling," she said, "I have very good news for you."
"For me," said Judy, flushing and paling almost in the same moment.
"Yes, my dear little pet, very nice news. Your darling Hilda is coming."
"Aunt Maggie!"
"Yes, here's a telegram from her. She says in it, '_Tell Judy to expect me at ten to-night_.' Why, my darling, how white you are! Babs, run and fetch me those smelling-salts. Now, Judy, just one whiff. Ah, now you're better."
"Yes, auntie, much, much, _much_ better. I am only awfully happy."
Judy smiled, and the tears rushed to her eyes; her little thin hand trembled, she tried to push her drawing materials away.
"Please may I have the telegram?" she asked.
"Of course you may, my darling. Oh, and here comes kind Miss Mills with your chicken-broth. Just the thing to set you up. Drink it off, dear. Miss Mills, our sweet Hilda is coming to-night. I have just had a telegram, she'll be here about ten."
"Who's to meet her?" asked Miss Mills. "You forget that there are no horses in the stables now, and no carriage in the coach-house."
"I did forget," said Aunt Marjorie. "I must send a message to Stephens to take a fly to the station."
"I'll go and tell him as soon as ever tea is over," answered Miss Mills. "Ah, Judy! You'll soon be well now, Judy, won't you?"
"I am well already," said Judy. "What delicious chicken-broth! Auntie dear, stoop down, I want to whisper something to you."
"Yes, my dearie, what is it?"
"I needn't be asleep when Hilda comes, need I? You will let me sit up in bed, won't you? I'll promise to be so quiet, I won't make a sound to disturb Babs, but I should love to be awake and waiting for darling Hilda. Please, please, auntie, say I may."
"My darling--until ten o'clock! so awfully late. Judy dear, you're getting quite feverish--you must calm yourself, my pet. Well, then, well, _anything_ to soothe you. We'll see how you keep, dearie. If you don't get at all excited, I--I'll see what I shall do. Now I must leave you, darling, to go and get Hilda's room ready. I wonder if Jasper is coming with her, she doesn't say anything about him."
Aunt Marjorie trotted out of the room, Miss Mills started on her walk to the village, and Judy began to speak eagerly to Babs.
"I am quite well," she said; "you'll never hear me sob again at night. I am quite the happiest girl in the world. Oh, think of kissing Hilda again; and I didn't fret, no, I didn't--not really. Babs, don't you think you might make the room look pretty? You might get out all the animals and put them on the chimney-piece."
"I'll be very glad to do that," replied Babs. "I often wanted to look at the darlings, but it was no fun when you didn't wish to play with them." She opened a little box as she spoke, and taking out china dogs, cats, cocks and hens, ducks, giraffes, elephants, monkeys, and many other varieties of the animal world, bestowed them with what taste she could manage on the mantelpiece. "Don't they look sweet!" she exclaimed. "I suppose you're not strong enough to have a game, Judy? If you could bray like the donkey, I'd be the roaring bull."
"To-morrow, perhaps, I can," said Judy, in a weak voice; "but the room is not half ready yet. I want you to pin some of my drawings and some of my texes on the wall. You'll find them in my own box if you open it."
"Yes, yes," said Babs in delight. "I do like making the room pretty for Hilda, and you ordering me. You may purtend if you like that I am your little servant."
"Very well; you're putting that picture upside down, Babs."
"Oh, how funny! Is that right?"
"No, it's awfully crooked."
For the next half-hour Babs labored hard, and Judy superintended, giving sharp criticisms and ordering the arrangements of the chamber with much peremptoriness.
"Now we must have flowers," she exclaimed. "You must go out to the garden, and pick all the violets you can get."
"But it's very late to go out," said Babs, "and Miss Mills will be angry."
"As if that mattered! Who cares who is angry when Hilda is coming? The worst Miss Mills can do is to punish you, and you won't mind that when you think about Hilda. I know where there are violets, white and blue, on that south bank after you pass the shrubbery; you know the bank where the bees burrow, and where we catch ladybirds in the summer; run, Babs, do run at once and pick all you can find."
Judy's room was decorated to perfection. Judy herself lay in her white bed, with pink roses on her cheeks, and eyes like two faintly shining stars, and smiles coming and going on her lips, and eager words dropping now and then from her impatient little tongue.
"What is the hour now, Aunt Marjorie? Is it really only half-past nine?"
"It is five-and-twenty to ten, Judy, and Miss Mills has gone in the fly to the station, and your Hilda will be back, if the train is punctual, by ten o'clock. How wonderfully well you look, my darling. I did right after all to let you sit up in bed to wait for your dear sister."
"Yes, I am quite well, only--I hope Jasper won't come too."
"Oh, fie! my pet. You know you ought not to say that treasonable sort of thing--Jasper is Jasper, one of the family, and we must welcome him as such--but between ourselves, just for no one else to hear in all the wide world, I do hope also that our dear little Hilda will come here by herself."
Judy threw her thin arms round Aunt Marjorie's neck and gave her a silent hug.
"I'll never breathe what you said," she whispered back in her emphatic voice.
Babs slept peacefully in her cot at the other end of the room. The white and blue violets lay in a tiny bowl on the little table by Judy's bed. The rumble of wheels was heard in the avenue. Aunt Marjorie started to her feet, and the color flew from Judy's face.
"It cannot be Hilda yet," exclaimed the aunt. "No, of course, it is the doctor. He will say that you are better to-night, Judy."
The medical man entered the room, felt the pulse of his little patient, looked into her eyes, and gave utterance to a few cheerful words.
"The child is much better, isn't she?" asked Aunt Marjorie, following him out of the room.
"Hum! I am not so sure; her pulse is weak and quick, and for some reason she is extremely excited. What is she sitting up in bed for? she ought to have been in the land of dreams a long time ago."
"Don't you know, Dr. Harvey; didn't we tell you, my niece, Mrs. Quentyns, is expected to-night? and Judy is sitting up to see her."
"Suspense is very bad for my little patient. What time is Mrs. Quentyns expected to arrive?"
"About ten. Judy is especially attached to her sister, and if I had insisted on her trying to go to sleep, she would have tossed about and worked herself into a fever."
"She is very nearly in one now, and I don't particularly like the look of excitement in her eyes. I hope Mrs. Quentyns will be punctual. As soon as ever she comes, the child must settle to sleep. Give her a dose of that bromide mixture immediately after. I'll come and see her the first thing in the morning."