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."