A RECOVERY AND A VISIT.
Young Andy McLean was not destined to be gathered to his forefathers
yet, however, and before Christmas he was able to sit up in bed and beg
his mother fretfully to telephone to Exmoor and ask some of the fellows
to come over.
"The doctor says you're not to see any of the boys yet, Andy," replied
his mother firmly.
"If I can't see boys, is there anything I can see?" he demanded with
extreme irritability.
Mrs. McLean smiled and a little later dispatched a note to Queen's
Cottage. That afternoon Nance came shyly into Andy's room and sat down
in a low chair beside the white iron hospital bed which had been
substituted for the big old mahogany one.
"Your mother says you are lots better, Andy," she said.
Andy gave a happy, sheepish smile and wiggled two fingers weakly, which
meant they were to shake hands.
"Mother was afraid for the fellows to come," he said, "on account of my
heart. I suppose she thinks a girl can't affect anybody's heart."
"I'm so quiet, you see," said Nance, "but I'll go if you think it's
going to hurt you."
"You wouldn't like to see me cry, would you? I boohooed like a kid this
morning because they wouldn't let me have broiled ham for breakfast. I
smelt it cooking. It would be just like having to give up broiled ham
for breakfast to have you go, Nance. Sit down again, will you, and don't
leave me until I tell you. Since I've been sick I've learned to be a
boss."
"I'm sorry I didn't let you boss me that night, Andy," remarked Nance
meekly. "I ought never to have coasted down the hill. I've wanted to
apologize ever since."
"Have you been blaming yourself?" he broke in. "It wasn't your fault at
all. It all happened because I was angry and didn't look where I was
going. I have had a lot of time to think lately, and I've decided that
there is nothing so stupid as getting mad. You always have to pay for it
somehow. Look at me: a human wreck for indulging in a fit of rage.
There's a fellow at Ex. who lost his temper in an argument over a
baseball game and walked into a door and broke his nose."
Nance laughed.
"There are other ways of curing tempers besides broken bones," she said.
"Just plain remorse is as good as a broken nose; at least I've found it
so."
"Did you have the remorse, Nance?" asked Andy, wiggling the fingers of
his good hand again.
"Yes, awfully, Andy," answered the young girl, slipping her hand into
his. "I felt just like a murderer."
The nurse came in presently to say that the fifteen minutes allotted for
the call was up. It had slipped by on the wings of the wind, but their
friendship had been re-established on the old happy basis. Andy was
unusually polite to his mother and the nurse that day, and Nance went
straight to the village and bought two big bunches of violets, one for
Molly and one for Judy. In some way she must give expression to the
rejoicing in her heart, and this was the only means she could think of.
Besides Andy McLean's recovery, several other nice things happened
before Christmas. One morning Judy burst into her friend's room like a
wild creature, waving a letter in each hand.
"They are coming," she cried. "They have each written to tell me so.
Isn't it perfect? Isn't it glorious?"
No need to tell Molly and Nance who "they" were. These girls were fully
aware that Judy treated her mother and father exactly like two
sweethearts, giving each an equal share of her abundant affections; but
the others were not so well informed about Judy's family relations.
Otoyo Sen began to clap her hands and laugh joyously in sympathy.
"Is it two honorable young gentlemen who arriving come to see Mees
Kean?"
"Now, Otoyo, how often have I told you not to say 'arriving come,'"
exclaimed Molly. "I know it's a fascinating combination and difficult to
forget in moments of excitement, but it's very bad English."
"Mees Kean, she is so happee," replied the Japanese girl, speaking
slowly and carefully. "I cannot remembering when I see so much great
joy."
"Wouldn't you be happy, too, if your honorable mamma and papa were
coming to Wellington to visit you, you cunning little sparrow-bird?"
asked Judy, seizing Otoyo's hands and dancing her wildly about the room.
"Oh, it is honorable mother and father! That is differently. It is not
the same in Japan. Young Japanese girl might make great deal of noise
over something new and very pretty,--you see? But it is not respectful
to jump-up-so about parents arriving."
There was a great laugh at this. Otoyo was an especial pet at Queen's
with the older girls.
"She's like a continuous performance of 'The Mikado,'" remarked Edith
Williams. "Three little maids from school rolled into one,--the
quaintest, most adorable little person."
"And when do these honorable parents arriving come?" asked Margaret
Wakefield.
"To-morrow afternoon," answered Judy. "Where shall I get rooms? What
shall I take them to see? Shall I give a tea and ask the girls to meet
them? Don't you think a sleighing party would be fun? And a fudge party
in the evening? Papa loves fudge. Do you think it would be a good idea
to have dinner up here in Molly's and Nance's room, or let papa give a
banquet at the Inn? Do suggest, everybody."
Judy was too excited to sit down. She was walking up and down the room,
her cheeks blazing and her eyes as uncannily bright as two elfin lights
on a dark night.
"Be calm, Judy," said Molly, taking her friend by the shoulders and
pushing her into a chair. "You'll work yourself into a high fever with
your excitable ways. Now, sit down there and we'll talk it over quietly
and arrange a program."
Judy sat down obediently.
"I suppose it does seem funny to all of you, but, you see, mamma and
papa and I have been brought up together----"
"You mean you brought them up?" asked Edith.
"We brought each other up. They call me 'little sister', and until I
went off to college, because papa insisted I must have some education,
life was just one beautiful lark."
"What a jolly time you must have had!" observed Nance with a wistful
smile which reminded the self-centred Judy at last that it was not
exactly kind to pile it on too thickly about her delightful parents.
Not a little curiosity was felt by the Queen's girls to see Mr. and Mrs.
Kean, whom Judy had described as paragons of beauty and wit, and they
assembled at Wellington station in a body to meet the distinguished
pair. Judy herself was in a quiver of happy excitement and when finally
the train pulled into the station, she rushed from one platform to
another in her eagerness. Of course they had taken the chair car down,
but she was too bewildered to remember that there was but one such coach
on the Wellington train, and it was usually the rear car.
"I don't find them. Oh, mamma! Oh, papa! You couldn't have missed the
train!" she cried, addressing the spirits of the air.
Just then a very tall, handsome man with eyes exactly like Judy's
pinioned her arms from behind.
"Well, little sister, don't you know your own father?"
He was just as Judy had described him; and her word-picture also fitted
Mrs. Kean, a dainty, pretty, little woman, with a doll-like face and
flaxen hair, who would never have given the impression that she was in
the habit of roughing it in engineering camps, sleeping out of doors,
riding across sun-baked plains on Texas bronchos, and accompanying her
husband wherever he went on his bridge and railroad-building trips.
"Judy hasn't had much home life," she said later to Molly. "We had to
take our choice, little sister and I, between a home without papa or
papa without a home, and we decided that he was ten thousand times more
delightful than the most wonderful palace ever built."
Her extravagant speeches reminded Molly of Judy; but the mother was much
gentler and quieter than her excitable daughter, and perhaps not so
clever.
They dined at Queen's that night and made a tour of the entire house,
except Judith Blount's room, all apartments having been previously
spruced up for inspection. Otoyo had shown her respect for the occasion
by hanging a Japanese lantern from the chandelier and loading a little
table with "meat-sweets," which she offered to the guests when they
paused in her room during their triumphal progress through the house.
Later Molly and Nance entertained at a fudge and stunt party and Mr. and
Mrs. Kean were initiated into the secrets of life at Queen's.
They entered into the fun like two children, and one of the stunts, a
dialogue between the Williams sisters, amused Mr. Kean so much that he
laughed loud and long, until his wife shook him by the shoulder and
exclaimed:
"Hush, Bobbie. Remember, you're not on the plains, but in a girls'
boarding school."
"Yes, Robert," said Judy, who frequently spoke to her parents by their
first names, "remember that you are in a place where law and order must
be maintained."
"You shouldn't give such laugh-provoking stunts, then," answered Mr.
Kean, "but I'll try and remember to put on the soft pedal hereafter."
Then Molly, accompanying herself on Judy's guitar, sang:
"Big camp meetin' down the swamp,
Oh, my! Hallelujah!"
Mr. Kean suddenly joined in with a deep, booming bass. He had learned
that song many years before in the south, he said, and had never
forgotten it.
"He never forgets anything," said Judy proudly, laying her cheek against
her father's. "And now, what will you sing, Bobbie, to amuse the
ladies?"
Mr. Kean, without the least embarrassment, took the guitar, and, looking
so amazingly like Judy that they might have been twins, sang:
"Young Jeremy Jilson Johnson Jenks
Was a lad of scarce nineteen----"
It was a delightful song and the chorus so catchy that after the second
verse the entire fudge and stunt party joined in with:
"'Oh, merry-me, merry-me,'
Sang young Jeremy,
'Merry-me, Lovely Lou----'"
Presently Mr. Kean, seizing his daughter around the waist, began
dancing, and in a moment everybody was twirling to that lively tune,
bumping against each other and tumbling on the divans in an effort to
circle around the room. All the time. Mrs. Kean, standing on a chair in
the corner, was gently remonstrating and calling out:
"Now, Bobbie, you mustn't make so much noise. This isn't a mining camp."
Nobody heard her soft expostulations, and only the little lady herself
heard the sharp rap on the door and noticed a piece of paper shoved
under the crack. Rescuing it from under the feet of the dancers, and
seeing that it was addressed to "Miss Kean," she opened and read it.
"Oh, how very mortifying," she exclaimed. "Now, Bobbie, I knew you would
get these girls into some scrape. You are always so noisy. See here! Our
own Judy being reprimanded! You must make your father explain to the
President or Matron or whoever this Miss Blount is, that it was all his
fault."
"What in the world are you talking about, Julia Kean?" demanded Judy,
snatching the note from her mother and reading it rapidly. "Well, of all
the unexampled impudence!" she cried when she had finished. "Will you be
good enough to listen to this?
"'Miss Kean: You and your family are a little too noisy for the comfort
of the other tenants in this house. Those of us who wish to study and
rest cannot do so. This is not a dance hall nor a mining camp. Will you
kindly arrange to entertain more quietly? The singing is especially
obnoxious.
"'JUDITH BLOUNT.'"
Judy was in such a white heat of rage when she finished reading the
note, that her mother was obliged to quiet her by smoothing her forehead
and saying over and over:
"There, there, my darling, don't mind it so much. No doubt the young
person was quite right."
Mr. Kean was intensely amused over the letter. He read it to himself
twice; then laughed and slapped his knee, exclaiming:
"By Jove, Judy, my love, it takes a woman to write a note like that."
"A woman? A cat!" broke in Judy.
Mrs. Kean put her hand over her daughter's mouth and looked shocked.
"Oh, Judy, my dearest, you mustn't say such unladylike things," she
cried.
"It's just because she wasn't invited," continued Judy. "I wouldn't let
the girls ask her this time. She usually is invited and makes as much
racket as any of us."
"It was rather mean to leave her out," observed Molly. "I suppose she's
sore about it. But we didn't ask all the girls at Queen's. Sallie Marks
and two freshmen were not invited, and if we had gone outside, we'd have
invited Mary Stewart and Mabel Hinton."
"Still," said Mr. Kean, "there's nothing meaner than the 'left-out'
feeling. It cuts deep. Suppose we smooth things over by asking her to
our next party. Let me see. Will all of you give Mrs. Kean and me the
pleasure of having you dine with us to-morrow evening at the Inn? Now,
may I borrow some writing materials?" he added, after a chorus of
acceptances had been raised.
Nance conducted him to her writing desk, which was always the acme of
neatness, and well stocked with stationery. Here is the letter that Mr.
Kean wrote to Judith Blount, which Judy, looking over her father's
shoulder, read aloud as it evolved:
"'Dear Miss Blount:' (Blount, did you say her name was? Humph!) 'You
were quite right to scold Mr. Kean and me for making so much noise. It
was inconsiderate of us----'"
"But, Bobbie," protested Mrs. Kean, "it isn't fair to lay the blame on
me and make me write the letter, too."
"Be quiet, my love," answered her husband.
"'Will you not give us the pleasure of your company at dinner to-morrow
evening at the Inn? We are anxious to show you what really quiet,
law-abiding people we are, and Mr. Kean and I will be much disappointed
if you do not allow us the opportunity to prove it to you.'"
Judy's father paused, his pen suspended, while he asked:
"Didn't I see bill posters at the station announcing a performance at
the Opera House?"
"Yes," cried Judy. "They're giving 'The Silver King.'"
"'Dinner will be a little early,'" he wrote, "'because Mr. Kean is
planning to take us all to the play afterwards. He will call for you
in'----what shall I call for you in?"
"The bus," promptly answered every girl in the room.
"'--the bus at six fifteen. Anticipating much pleasure in having you
with us to-morrow, believe me,
Most cordially yours,
JULIA S. KEAN.'"
"Now, Julia, my love, sit down and copy what I've written in your best
handwriting, and we'll try to smooth down this fiery young person's
ruffled feathers."
Mrs. Kean obediently copied the note. After all, it wasn't an unkind
revenge, and Otoyo delivered it at Judith's door while the others
chatted quietly and absorbed quantities of hot fudge and crackers.
Presently Otoyo stole softly back into the room.
"What did she say, little one?" asked Judy.
"She was very stilly," answered Otoyo shyly. "She spoke nothing
whatever. I thought it more wisely to departing go."
The laugh that was raised at this lucid report restored good humor in
the company.
A vehicle called for Mr. and Mrs. Kean at a quarter before ten to take
them down into the village, and it was not long before every light was
out in Queen's Cottage but one in a small single room in an upper story.
Here, in front of the mirror over the dressing table, sat a black-eyed
girl in a red silk dressing gown.
"Judith," she said fiercely to her image in the glass, "can't you
remember that you are too poor to insult people any longer?"
Then she rolled up Mrs. Kean's note into a little ball and flung it
across the room with such force that it hit the other wall and bounded
back again to her feet, and she ground it under her heel. After this
exhibition of impotent rage, she put out her light and flung herself
into the bed, where she tossed about uneasily and exclaimed to herself:
"I won't be poor! I won't work. I hate this hideous little room and I
loathe Queen's Cottage. I wish I had never been born."
Nevertheless, Judith Blount did humble herself next day to accept Mrs.
Kean's invitation. At the dinner she was sullen and quiet, but she could
not hide her enjoyment of the melodrama later.
The one taste which she had in common with her brother Richard was an
affection for the theatre, no matter how crude the acting, nor how
hackneyed the play.
But the insulting letter that she had sent to Judy Kean widened the
breach between her and the Queen's girls, and no amount of effort on her
part after that could bridge it over.