A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY
At her cry of dismay, Perkins strolled over to take a look.
"They're burnt, Miss," he announced, bending over the pan.
"Of course they are," snapped Judy, "any one could see that, Perkins."
Perkins looked over her head, loftily.
"Yes, Miss, of course," he said, "but it's mostly always that way when
there are too many cooks. I'm afraid there won't be enough to go
around, Miss."
"Are these all?" asked Judy, anxiously.
"Yes," said Launcelot, "I cooked four and you burned six, and there are
the Judge and Anne and Nannie and Amelia and Perkins and you and I to
be fed."
"You needn't count me, sir," said Perkins. "I never eats, sir."
With which astounding statement, he carried away the charred remains.
"Does he mean that he doesn't eat at all?" questioned Judy, staring
after the stout figure of the retiring butler.
Launcelot laughed. "Oh, he eats enough," he said, "only he doesn't do
it in public. He knows his place."
"I wish he did," said Judy, dubiously. "Oh, dear, what shall we do
about the fish?"
"There will be one apiece for the others," said Launcelot. "I guess
you and I will have to do without--Judy--"
He spoke her name with just the slightest hesitation, and his eyes
laughed as they met hers.
"And I said any one could cook!" Judy's tone was very humble. "What a
prig you must have thought me, Launcelot."
"Oh, go and get some flowers for the table and forget your troubles,"
was Launcelot's off-hand way of settling the question, and as Judy went
off she decided that she should like him. He was different from other
boys. He was a gentleman in spite of his shabby clothes, and his
masterfulness rather pleased her--hitherto Judy had ruled every boy
within her domain, and Launcelot was a new experience.
It was a hungry crowd that trooped to the great gray rock where the
table was spread.
"How beautiful you have made it look, Judy," cried Anne, as she came
up, blissfully unconscious of a half-dozen new freckles and a burned
nose.
Nannie May sniffed. "Fish," she said, ecstatically, "our fish, oh,
Amelia, don't things look _good_."
Amelia surveyed the table solemnly. She was a fat, rather dumpy girl
of twelve. She was noted principally for two things, her indolence and
her appetite, and it was in deference to the latter that she sighed
rapturously as she surveyed the table. She had never seen anything
just like it. The country picnics of the neighbors always showed an
amazing array of cakes and pies and chicken, but these were here, and
added to them were sandwiches of wonderful and attractive shapes,
marvelous fruits, bonbons, and chocolates, and salads garnished with a
skill known to none other in the village but the accomplished Perkins.
As her eyes swept over the table, they were arrested by the platter of
fish. In spite of Perkins' overplentiful border of cress and sliced
lemon--put on to hide deficiencies, the four fish looked pitifully
inadequate.
"I caught four myself," said Amelia, heavily, pointing an accusing
finger at the platter, "and Anne caught three and Nan three--there were
ten."
Launcelot groaned. "I wish you weren't quite so good at arithmetic,
Amelia," he said, "we shall have to confess--we burned the rest up--and
please ma'am, we are awfully sorry."
They all laughed at the funny figure he made as he dropped on his knees
before the stolid Amelia--but into Judy's cheeks crept a little
flush--"I--" she began, with a tremble in her voice; but Launcelot
interrupted; "we will never do it again," he promised, and then as they
laughed again, he rose and stood at Judy's side.
"Don't you dare tell them that you did it," he whispered, and once more
she felt the masterfulness of his tone. "I should have watched the
fire--it was as much my fault as yours," and with that he picked up a
pile of cushions, and went to arrange a place for her at the head of
the table.
Amelia ate steadily through the menu. She was not overawed by Perkins,
nor was her attention distracted by the laughter and fun of the others.
It was not until the ice-cream was served--pink and luscious, with a
wreath of rosy strawberries encircling each plate--that she spoke.
"Well," she said, "I don't know's I mind now about those fish being
burned," with which oracular remark, she helped herself to two slices
of cake, and ate up her ice in silence.
Nannie May was thirteen and looked about eleven. She was red-haired
and fiery-tempered, and she loved Anne with all the strength of her
loyal heart. As yet she did not like Judy. It was all very well to
look like a princess, but that was no reason why one should be as stiff
as a poker. She hoped Anne would not love Judy better than she did
her, and she noted jealously the rapt attention with which Anne
observed the newcomer and listened to all she said.
Judy was telling the episode of the ice-box. She told it well, and in
spite of herself Nannie had to laugh.
"When I went in there were salads to right of me, cold tongue to the
left of me, and roast chicken in front of me," said Judy, gesticulating
dramatically, "and I was so hungry that it seemed too good to be true
that Perkins should have provided all of those things. And just then
the door slammed and my match went out--and there I was in the cold and
the dark--and I just screamed for Anne."
"Why didn't you put the latch up when you went in?" asked Nannie,
scornfully. "It seems to me 'most anybody would have thought of that."
Anne came eagerly to her friend's defence.
"Neither of us knew it was a spring latch," she said, "and I was as
surprised as Judy was."
"Why didn't you eat up all the things?" asked Amelia, as she helped
herself to another chocolate.
"I didn't have any light--" began Judy.
"Well, I should have eaten them up in the dark," mused Amelia, as
Perkins passed her the salted almonds for the sixth time.
"It was a good thing I didn't," laughed Judy, "or you wouldn't have had
anything to eat to-day. Would they, Perkins?"
For once in his life Perkins was in an affable mood. The lunch had
gone off well, there had been no spiders in the cream or red ants in
the cake. The coffee had been hot and the salads cold, and now that
lunch was over he could pack the dishes away to be washed by the
servants at home, and rest on his laurels.
"I should have found something, Miss," he said, cheerfully; then as a
big drop splashed down on his bald head, he leaned over the Judge.
"I think it is going to rain, sir," he murmured, confidentially.
"By George," gasped the Judge, as a bright flash of light and a low
rumble emphasized Perkins' words, "by George, I believe it is.
"Oh, oh, oh," screamed Amelia, and threw her arms frantically around
Nannie.
"Don't be silly," said Nannie, and gave her a little shake.
"We shall have to run for it," said Launcelot, gathering up wraps and
hats, as a sudden gust of wind picked up the ends of the tablecloth and
sent the napkins fluttering across the ground like a flock of white
geese.
"You'd better get the young ladies to the carriage, sir," said Perkins,
packing things into hampers in a hurry.
"They will get wet. It's going to be a heavy wind storm," said the
Judge with an anxious look at Judy.
"Let's run for the Cutter barn," cried Anne, with sudden inspiration.
"Good for you, Anne," said Launcelot, "that's the very thing."
"Where is the Cutter barn?" asked Judy.
"Across that stream and beyond the strip of woods. Over in the field."
"Come on, Anne, come on. Oh, isn't this glorious. I love the wind. I
love it, I love it." Judy's cry became almost a chant as she led the
way across the little bridge and through the fast-darkening bit of
woodland. The wind fluttered her white garments around her, her long
hair streamed out behind, and her flying feet seemed scarcely to touch
the ground.
Behind her came Anne, less like a wood-nymph, perhaps, but fresh and
fair, and not at all breathless, then Nannie, bareheaded and with her
best hat wrapped carefully in her short skirts, then Amelia, plunging
heavily.
Launcelot waited to help Perkins with the horses and hampers and then
he followed the girls.
The rain came before he was half-way across the stream, and the world
grew dark for a moment in the heavy downpour that drenched him. There
was a blaze of blue-white light, and a crash that seemed to shake the
universe.
"They will be scared half to death," was Launcelot's thought as he
forged ahead.
Just at the edge of the woods he came upon Anne and Judy. Judy had
dropped down in a white huddled bunch, and Anne was bending over her.
"She ran too fast," she explained, while the rain beat down on her fair
little head, "and she can't get her breath. Nannie and Amelia got to
the barn before the rain came, but I couldn't leave Judy."
"I'm all right," gasped Judy, "you run on, Anne. I'm all right."
"Yes, run on, Anne," commanded Launcelot. "I'll take care of Judy, and
you must not get wet," and with a protest Anne disappeared behind the
curtain of driving rain.
Judy staggered to her feet and attempted to walk two or three steps.
"Stop it," said Launcelot, firmly, "you must not."
"But I can't stay here," cried poor Judy, desperately.
Her lips were blue and her cheeks were white, so that Launcelot wavered
no longer. Without any warning, he picked her up as if she had been a
child, and ran with her across the field.
"Put me down, Launcelot. Put me down." Judy's tone was imperious.
But she had met her match. Launcelot plodded on doggedly.
"I shall never forgive you," she sobbed, as they reached the door of
the Cutter barn.
"Yes, you will," said Launcelot, and his lips were set in a firm line.
"I had to do it, Judy."
He laid her on a pile of hay in the corner.
Her eyes were closed, and her dark lashes swept across her pallid
cheeks.
"She isn't strong," whispered the worried Anne, her tender fingers
pushing back Judy's wet hair.
"No," said Launcelot, his deep young voice softening to a gentler key
as he looked down at her, "she isn't. Poor little thing!"
Judy heard, and her lashes fluttered. "How good they are," she
thought, remorsefully, and then she seemed to float away from realities.
When she came to herself, Launcelot had gone, and the three little
girls were rubbing her hands and trying to get her to drink some water.
"Oh, Judy, do you feel better?" Anne whispered; "we were so frightened."
"Yes," murmured Judy, and the color began to come into her face.
"Launcelot went to see if he could get something from Perkins for you
to take," said Anne; "he told us to build a fire in the old stove, but
we have been so worried about you that we haven't done anything."
"Is there a stove?" asked Judy, listlessly.
"Yes. Mr. Cutter put it in here to heat milk for the lambs, and once
when we had a picnic we made our coffee here."
"There isn't any wood," said Amelia, hopelessly.
"There is some up in the loft," said Nannie, "Don't you remember the
boys put it there, so that no one but ourselves could find it?"
She went swiftly up the narrow steps, but came flying back in a panic.
"_There's some one up there_," she whispered, all the color gone from
her face.
"Hush," said Anne, with her eyes on Judy.
Judy was not afraid. She was still weak and wan, but she was braver
than the little country girls, and not easily frightened.
"It is probably a pussy cat," she scoffed.
"Or a hen," giggled Amelia.
Anne said nothing. The darkness, the crashing storm outside, and
Judy's illness had upset her, and she shivered with apprehension.
"No," Nannie flared, with a scornful look at Amelia and Judy, "it isn't
a cat and it isn't a hen. IT sneezed!"
"Ask who's there," advised Judy from her couch.
"I don't dare," said Nannie.
"I don't dare," said Amelia.
So that it was little timid Anne, after all, who gathered up her
courage and went to the foot of the stairs and said in a trembling
voice:
"Please, who is up there?"
For a moment there was silence, and then some one said in sepulchral
tones:
"You won't ever tell?"
The girls stared at each other.
"What shall we say?" whispered Anne.
"Say 'never,'" suggested Judy, wishing she were well enough to manage
this exciting episode.
"NEVER," said the little girls all together.
There was a rustling in the hay in the loft, then cautious steps, and a
figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
At sight of it, Amelia shrieked and Nannie giggled, but Anne ran
forward with both hands out, and with her fair little face alight with
welcome.
"Why, Tommy Tolliver, Tommy Tolliver," she said, "is it really you, is
it really, really you?"