"You know a lot." In his soft brogue this sounded like the most
complimentary thing that could be said.
"But you don't remember me." This had troubled her at first. Now it
seemed like the most delicious of jokes, and they laughed at it
together.
"That was the first thing you said to me."
"Isn't it queer"--Judith's eyes widened and darkened as if it were
something more than queer, something far worse--"so queer! I can't think
what the first thing was that you said to me."
They confronted this problem in silence, staring at each other with
wide-open eyes. Though they were circling smoothly at last, carried on
by the slow, sweet music, so that they hardly seemed to be moving at
all, and though he did not really move his head, the boy's eyes seemed
to Judith to be coming nearer to hers, nearer all the time. They were
beautiful eyes, deep brown, and very clear. His brown hair grew in a
squarish line across his forehead, and waved softly at the temples. It
looked as if he had brushed it hard there to brush the curl out, but it
was curliest there.
"You've got the brownest eyes," said Judith.
"You've got the biggest eyes. Won't you tell me your name?"
Judith did not answer. She looked away from the disconcerting brown eyes
and down at her hand, against his shoulder, her own little hand, with
the careful manicure and the dull polish that was all her mother
permitted; bare of rings, though Norah had given her a beautiful garnet
ring for Christmas. How shiny his coat-sleeve was, and her hand looked
unfamiliar to her--not like her own at all. She pressed tighter against
his shoulder to steady herself.
The music was growing quicker and louder, working up gradually but
surely into a breathless crescendo that meant the end of the dance. It
whirled them dizzily about. The sleepy spell of the dance broke in this
final crash of noise, and as it broke a sudden panic caught Judith.
What had she been saying to this boy? She had never talked like this to
a boy before. And why was she dancing with him? She ought to be dancing
with Willard--Willard, waiting there in the dressing-room door with her
dance order in his hand, with the patient and puzzled look in his eyes,
with brick-red colour in his cheeks from the affront she had subjected
him to. What would Willard think of her? What would her mother think?
And who was this boy? Just what the children had called him in taunting
screams, on that long-ago May night, and she would have liked to scream
it now--a paddy.
Instead, she lifted her head, no longer afraid of the boy's brown eyes,
and said it, as cruelly as she could, in her soft and clear little
voice:
"Paddy," she said; "a paddy from Paddy Lane."
She looked defiantly into his eyes, but they did not grow angry. They
only grew very soft and kind, and they laughed at her. She wanted to
look away from the laughter in them, but she could not look away from
the kindness. Now she was not angry with him any more, but glad she was
dancing with him. She knew she never wanted to stop dancing.
"Paddy?" He thought she had said it to remind him of that May night; he
was remembering it now. "Are you that little girl?"
"Yes."
"The little girl who broke the lantern?"
"Yes," said Judith proudly.
"And had such long black legs, and went scuttling across the lawn, and
screaming out to me--that funny little girl?"
"But I did break the lantern," said Judith.
All the bravest stories that she had made up in the dark to put herself
to sleep with at night, all the perilous adventures of land and sea,
camp fire or pirate ship, began with the breaking of that lantern, and
the boy she rescued had been her companion upon them, her brushwood boy,
her own boy. She had found him at last, and he was laughing--laughing at
her.
"Sure you did. As if I couldn't have broken away from a bunch of fool
kids, without being doped with the smell of kerosene, and yelled at by
another fool kid. Sure you broke the lantern. How mad I was."
"You didn't remember." It was not a joke any longer now, but a tragedy,
and Judith felt overwhelmed by it, alone in the world. "You forgot, and
I--remembered."
The brown eyes and the gray met in one last long look and when the brown
eyes saw the hurt in Judith's, the laughter died out of them. Again they
seemed to be growing nearer and nearer to hers, but this time Judith was
not afraid, she was glad.
"If you didn't save my life then, you did to-night." It came in a husky
burst of confidence, straight from his shy boy's heart, very rare and
very precious. Judith caught her breath.
"Oh, did I? Did I?"
"Yes. This crowd here had me mad--crazy mad. I was going home. I was
going to get off the team. I wasn't going to school next week, and I've
worked my hands off to get there. Maybe you remembered and I forgot,
but--I won't forget again. You were that little girl." It was not a
slight to the little girl she used to be, but a tribute to the girl she
was; that was what looked out of his brown eyes at Judith, and sang
through the brogue in his voice.
"You were that little girl--you!"
"Yes," breathed Judith; "yes!"
They whirled faster and faster. This was really the end of the dance,
and this dance could never come again. Judith held tight to his shiny
shoulder, breathless, hurrying to part with her secret and strip herself
bare of mystery generously in a breath. All sorts of barriers might come
between them, she might put them there herself, and she was quite aware
of it, but not yet, not until the music stopped.
"My name's Judith--Judith Randall. Call me Judy."