A little girl sat on the worn front doorsteps of the Randall house. She
sat very still and straight, with her short, white skirts fluffed
daintily out on both sides, her hands tightly clasped over her thin
knees, and her long, silk-stockinged legs cuddled tight together. She
was bare-headed, and her short, soft hair showed silvery blonde in the
fading light. Her hair was bobbed. For one miserable month it had been
the only bobbed head in Green River. Her big, gray-green eyes had a
fugitive, dancing light in them. The little girl had beautiful eyes.
The little girl was Miss Judith Devereux Randall. She was eleven years
old, and she felt happier to-night than she remembered feeling in all
the eleven years of her life.
The Randalls' lawn was hedged with a fringe of lilac and syringa bushes,
with one great, spreading horse-chestnut tree at the corner. The house
did not stand far back from the street. The little girl could see a
generous section of Main Street sloping past, dark already under
shadowing trees. The street was empty. It was half-past six, and
supper-time in Green River, but the Randalls did not have supper, they
dined at night, like the Everards. To-night mother and father were
dining with the Everards, and the little girl had plans of her own.
Father was dressed, and waiting, shut in the library. Mother was
dressing in her big corner room upstairs, with all the electric lights
lighted. The little girl could see them, if she turned her head, but
mother was very far away, in spite of that, for her door was locked, and
you could not go in. You could not watch her brush her long, wonderful
hair, or help her into her evening gown. Mother's evening gown was black
this summer, with shiny spangles--a fairy gown. Mother had to be alone
while she dressed, because she was going to the Everards'.
There were two Everards, the Colonel, who was old because his hair was
white, and his wife, who wore even more beautiful clothes than mother.
She had heard her father say that the Colonel had made the town, and she
had heard Norah, the cook, say that he owned the town. She had an idea
that these two things were not quite the same, though they sounded
alike, for father was fond of the Colonel, and Norah was not. At any
rate, he was president of the bank--father and Norah agreed about
that--and he lived in a house at the edge of the town, in what used to
be a part of Larribees' woods. Father used to go Mayflowering there, but
now nobody could.
The house was ugly, with things sticking out all over it, towers and
balconies and cupolas, and it was the little girl's twin. She was born
the year the Everards settled in Green River.
"And you're marked with it," Norah said, in one of their serious talks,
when Mollie, the second girl, was out, and the two had the kitchen to
themselves. Norah was peeling apples for a pie, and allowing her
unlimited ginger-snaps, straight from the jar. "Marked with it, Miss
Judy."
"What?"
"That house, and what goes on in it."
"What does go on?"
"You'll know soon enough."
"I'm not marked with it. I've got a birthmark, but it's a strawberry, on
my left side, like the princesses have in the fairy tales."
"You are a kind of a princess, Miss Judy."
"Is that a bad thing to be, Nana?"
"It's a lonesome thing."
"My strawberry's fading. Mother says it will go away."
"It won't go away. What we're born to be, we will be, Miss Judy----.
Bless your heart, you're crying, with the big eyes of you. What for,
dear?"
"I don't know. I don't want to be a princess. I don't want to be
lonesome. I hate the Everards."
"Well, there's many to say that now, and there'll be more to say it
soon." Norah muttered this darkly, into her yellow bowl of apples, but
Judith heard: "Here, eat this apple, child. You musn't hate anybody."
"I do. I hate the Everards."
Queer things came into your head to say when you were talking with
Norah, who had an aunt with the second sight, and told beautiful fairy
tales herself, and even believed in fairies; Judith did not. The
Everards gave Judith and no other little girl in town presents at
Christmas, and invited Judith and no other little girl to lunch. They
had a great deal to do with her trouble, her serious trouble, which she
would not discuss even with Norah. But she did not really hate the
Everards--certainly not to-night. She was too happy.
Judith was going out to hang May-baskets.
So was every other little girl in town who wanted to, and it was a
wonderful thing to be doing to-night. It was really May night, by the
weather as well as the calendar--the kind of night that Norah's fairies
meant should come on the first of May: warm, with a tiny chill creeping
into the air as the dark came, a pleasant, shivery chill, as if there
might really be fairies or ghosts about. It was still and clear. One
star, that had just come up above the horse-chestnut tree, looked very
small and bright and close, as if it had climbed up into the sky out of
the dark, clustering leaves of the tree.
This was the star that Judith usually wished on, but she could wish on
the moon to-night; Norah had told her so; wish once instead of three
nights running, and get her wish whether she thought of the red fox's
tail or not. The new moon of May was a wishing moon.
A wishing moon! The small white figure on the steps cuddled itself into
a smaller heap. Judith sighed happily and closed her eyes. She was going
with the others. She had her wish already.
It was Judith's great trouble that she was not like other little girls.
Until she was six Judith had a vague idea that she was the only child in
the world. Then she tried to make friends with two small, dirty girls
over the back fence, and found out that there were other children, but
she must not play with them. One day Norah found her crying in the
nursery because she could not think what to play, and soon after Willard
Nash, the fat little boy next door, came to dinner and into her life,
and after that, Eddie and Natalie Ward, from the white house up the
street, and Lorena Drew, from over the river. Still other children came
to her parties, so many that she could not remember their names. Then
Judith's trouble began. She was not like them.
She did not look like them; her clothes were not made by a seamstress,
but came from city shops, and had shorter skirts, and stuck out in
different places. She could not do what they did; Mollie called for her
at nine at evening parties, and she usually had to go to bed half an
hour after dinner, before it was dark. She had to do things that they
did not do: make grown-up calls with her mother and wear gloves, and
take lessons in fancy dancing instead of going to dancing school.
But she had gone to school now for almost a year, a private school in
the big billiard-room at the Larribees', but a real school, with other
children in it. They did not make fun of her clothes, or the way she
pronounced her words, very often now. She belonged to a secret society
with Rena and Natalie. She had spent one night with Natalie, though she
had to come home before breakfast. The other children did not know she
was different, but Judith knew.
Unexpected things might be required of her at a moment's notice: to be
excused from school and pass cakes at a tea at the Everards'; to leave a
picnic before the potatoes were roasted, because Mollie had appeared,
inexorable; unaccountable things, but she was to be safe to-night. May
night was not such a wonderful night for any little girl as it was for
Judith.
The lights were on in Nashs' parlour, and not turned off in the
dining-room, which meant that the rest of the family were not through
supper, but Willard was. Presently she heard three loud, unmelodious
whistles, his private signal, and a stocky figure pushed itself through
a gap in the hedge which looked, and was, too small for it, and Judith
rubbed her eyes and sat up--it crossed the lawn to her.
"Good morning, Merry Sunshine," said Willard, ironically.
"I wasn't asleep."
"You were."
"I heard you coming."
"You did not."
"I did so."
These formalities over, she made room for him eagerly on the steps.
Willard looked fatter to Judith after a meal, probably because she knew
how much he ate. His clean collar looked much too clean and white in the
dark, and he was evidently in a teasing mood, but such as he was, he
was her best friend, and she needed him.
"Willard, guess what I'm going to do?"
"I don't know, kid." Willard's tone implied unmistakably that he did not
want to know.
"To-night!"
Judith's voice thrilled. Willard stared at her. Her eyes looked wider
than usual, and very bright. She was smiling a strange little smile, and
a rare dimple, which he really believed she had made with a slate
pencil, showed in her cheek. The light in her face was something new to
him, something he did not understand, and therefore being of masculine
mind, wished to remove.
"You're going to miss it to-night for one thing, kid," he stated
deliberately.
"Oh, am I?" Judith dimpled and glowed.
"We're going to stay out until ten. Vivie's not going." Willard's big
sister had chaperoned the expedition the year before. Now it was to go
out unrestrained into the night.
"That's lovely."
Willard searched his brain for more overwhelming details.
"We've got a dark lantern."
"That's nice."
"I got it. It's father's. He won't miss it. It's hidden in the Drews'
barn. We're going to meet at the Drews, to fool them. They'll be
watching the Wards'."
"They will?"
"Sure."
"The--paddies?"
"Sure."
Judith drew an awed, ecstatic breath. He was touching now on the chief
peril and charm of the expedition. Hanging May-baskets, conferring an
elaborately-made gift upon a formal acquaintance, was not the object of
it--nothing so philanthropic; it was the escape after you had hung them.
You went out for adventure, to ring the bell and get away, to brave the
dangers of the night in small, intimate companies. And the chief danger,
which you fled from through the dark, was the paddies.
She did not know much about them. She would not show her ignorance by
asking questions. But there were little boys with whom a state of war
existed. They chased you, even fought with you, made a systematic
attempt to steal your May-baskets. They were mixed up in her mind with
gnomes and pirates. She was deliciously afraid of them. She hardly
thought they had human faces. She understood that they were most of them
Irish, and that it was somehow a disgrace for them to be Irish, though
her own Norah was Irish and proud of it.
"Sure!" said Willard. "Irish boys. Paddies from Paddy Lane. Ed got a
black eye last year. We'll get back at them. It will be some evening."
Judith did not look jealous or wistful yet. "The whole crowd's going."
"Yes, I know," thrilled Judith. "Oh, Willard----"
"Oh, Willard," he mimicked. Judith pronounced all the letters in his
name, which was not the popular method. "Oh, Willard, what do you think
I heard Viv say to the Gaynor girl about you?"
"Don't know. Willard, won't the paddies see the dark lantern?"
"Viv said you were as pretty as a doll, but just as stiff and stuck-up,"
pronounced Willard sternly. "And your father's only the cashier of the
bank, and just because the Everards have taken your mother up is no
reason for her to put on airs and get a second girl and get into
debt----"
He broke off, discouraged. Judith did not appear to hear him. After the
masculine habit, as he could not control the situation, he rose to
leave.
"Well, so long, kid. I've got to go to the post-office."
Even the mention of this desirable rendezvous, which was denied to her
because Mollie always brought home the evening mail in a black silk
bag, did not dim the dancing light in Judith's eyes. She put a hand on
his sleeve.
"Willard----"
"Well, kid?"
"Willard, don't you wish I was going to-night?"
"What for, to fight the paddies, or carry the dark lantern?"
"I could fight," said Judith, with a little quiver in her voice, as if
she could.
"Fight? You couldn't even run away. They'd"--Willard hissed it
mysteriously--"they'd get you."
"No, they wouldn't, because"--something had happened to her eyes, so
that they did not look tantalizing--"you'd take care of me, Willard,"
she announced surprisingly, "wouldn't you?"
"Forget it," murmured Willard, flattered.
"Wouldn't you?"
"I----"
"Willard!"
"Yes."
"Well--I am. Father made mother let me. I'm going with you."
The words she had been trying to say were out at last in a hushed voice,
because her heart was beating hard, but they sounded beautiful to her,
like a kind of song. Perhaps Willard heard it, too. He really was her
best friend, and he did not look so fat, after all, in the twilight. She
waited breathlessly.
"You are?"
Judith nodded. She could not speak.
"Well!" Willard's feelings were mixed, his face was not fashioned to
express a conflict of emotions, and words failed him, too. "You're a
queer kid. Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Aren't you glad, Willard?"
"You'll get sleepy."
"Aren't you glad?"
"Sure I'm glad. But you can't run, and you are a cry-baby."
These were known facts, not insults, but now Judith's eyes had stopped
dancing.
"Judy, are you mad with me?"
"No."
"You're the queerest kid." Up the street, he caught sight of a member of
a simpler sex than Judith's. "There's Ed coming out of the gate. I've
got to see him about something. See you later. Don't be mad. So long!"
The house was astir behind Judith. Father was opening and shutting
doors, and hunting for things. Norah was helping mother into her wraps
and scolding. Somebody was telephoning. Mother's carriage was late.
But it was turning into the yard now, a big, black hack from the Inn,
with a white horse. Judith liked white horses best. The front door
opened, and her father, very tall and blond, with his shirt-front
showing white, and her mother, with something shiny in her black hair,
swept out.
"Look who's here," said her father, and picked her up with his hands
under her elbows. "Going to paint the town red to-night, son?"
"Red?" breathed Judith. How strong father was, and how beautiful mother
was. She smelled of the perfume in the smallest bottle on the
toilet-table. How kind they both were. "Red?"
"Harry, you see she doesn't care a thing about going. She'd be better
off in bed. Careful, baby! Your hair is catching on my sequins. Put her
down, Harry. You'll spoil the shape of her shoulders some day."
"Don't you want to go, son?"
"I--" Judith choked, "I----"
"Well, she's not crazy about it, is she?"
"Then do send her to bed."
"No, you can't break your promise to a child, Minna."
"Prig," said mother sweetly, as if a prig were a pleasant thing to be.
"All right, let her go, then. Oh, Harry, look at that horse. They've
sent us the knock-kneed old white corpse again."
Mother hurried him into the carriage, and it clattered out of the yard.
They did not look back. They were always in a hurry, and rather cross
when they went to the Everards. For once she was glad to see them go,
such a dreadful crisis had come and passed. How could father think she
did not want to go, father who used to hang May-baskets himself? Norah
was calling her, but she did not answer. Norah was cross to-night. She
did not know how happy Judith was.
Nobody knew, but now Judith did not want to tell. She did not want
sympathy. She was not lonely. This secret was too important to tell.
And, before her eyes, a lovely and comforting thing was happening,
silently and suddenly, as lovely things do happen. Quite still on the
steps, a white little figure, alone in a preoccupied world, but calm in
spite of it, Judith looked and looked.
Above the horse-chestnut tree, so filmy and faint that the star looked
brighter than ever, so pale that it was not akin to the stars or the
flickering lights in the street, but to the dark beyond, where
adventures were, so friendly and sweet that it could make the wish in
your heart come true, whether you were clever enough to wish it out loud
or not, hung the wishing moon.