Judith went straight to Uncle Jem, sobbing all the way
unconsciously; she was not conscious of anything but what Mrs. Ben
had said.
"They've gone away!--they've gone away!--they've gone away!" It
reiterated itself to her in dull monotony, keeping slow time with the
throbbing pain of her disappointment.
Uncle Jem heard her coming--in some surprise, she came so fast. What
was the child hurrying like that for? What had happened?
"I hear ye, child!" he called cheerily. The time-worn little
pleasantry did him service as usual. "I'm layin' low for ye!"
She crossed the outer threshold and the little box of a kitchen
without slackening her excited pace, and appeared in the old man's
doorway, breathless and flushed.
"It's too late!" she gasped, briefly. Then, because she needed
comforting and Uncle Jem was her comforter of old, her head went down
on the patchwork quilt that covered his twisted old frame, and she
cried like a grief-struck little child.
"There, there, deary!" he crooned, his twisted fingers traveling
across her hair, "jest you lay there an' cry it all out--don't ye
hurry any. When ye get all done an' good an' ready, tell Uncle Jem
what it's all about. But take your time, little un--take your time."
The child was worn out in every thread of the over-strained young
body. The excitement and nervous rack of the last twenty-four hours
was having sway now, and would not be put aside. And the keen
disappointment that Mrs. Ben's words had brought, added to all the
rest, had proved too much even for Judith Lynn. She cried on, taking
her time.
"There now! that's right, storm's clearin'!" said Uncle Jem, as at
length the brown head lifted slowly. "Now we'll pull out o' harbor
and get to work." Which meant that now explanations were in order.
Judith understood.
"They've gone away!" she said thickly. It takes time for throbbing
throats to come back to their own. "It's too late to find out. If I'd
gone yesterday--" She stopped hastily, on the verge of fresh tears.
"Go ahead, little un; weather's a little too thick yet to see clear.
Who's gone away? What's it too late for?" But even as he said it,
Uncle Jem, too, understood. He went on without waiting, to give
Judith more time.
"Hold on!--I can pull out o' the fog myself. That mother o' that
little cured un--she's the one that's gone away, eh? You was too late
to see her an' ask your questions. I see. Well, now, I call that too
bad. But 'tain't worth another cry, deary."
"Well, I won't cry another one, so there!" cried Judith. "Only--only--"
"I know--I know! We've got to slew off on another tack. You give Uncle
Jem time to think, Judy. There's a powerful lot o' thinkin'-time
handy when you lay here on your back for a livin'. Jest you run home
an' let your ma put you to bed. I've heard all about your goin's-on,
an' I guess bed's the best place for you! I'll think it out while
you're restin' up."
But to unlettered people who rarely get in touch with what is going
on in the thick of things, "thinking it out" is no easy matter. Their
one frail little hold on the miracle that could make Blossom whole
had snapped when the hotel mother and child went away. Where to turn
next for information--what to do next--was a puzzle that would not
unravel for any of them. In vain Uncle Jem wrestled with it, as he
lay through long, patient hours. And Judith wrestled untiringly.
The mackerel-money came in due time, but the wondrous little blue
check that came out of the official-looking envelope and lay
outspread on Judith's hard, brown palm had lost its power to give
legs to little Blossom, and Judith gazed at it resentfully. What was
the use of it now? A small part of it would get the little
wheel-chair, but it was not a wheel-chair Judith longed for now. She
put away the blue check safely, and took up the wrestling again. She
would find the clue to the puzzle--she refused to give it up.
Then quite privately and uninvited, Jemmy Three began to think. No
one had thought of asking his advice; thinking had never been Jemmy
Three's stronghold.
He went into his grandfather's room one early morning arrayed in his
best clothes. Not much in the way of a "best," but Jemmy had "pieced
out" as well as possible with scraps of his dead father's best that
had been packed away. He looked unduly big and plain and awkward in
the unaccustomed finery, but the freckles across the deep brown
background of his face spelled d-e-t-e-r-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n. Uncle Jem
spelled it out slowly. His astonished gaze wandered downward, then,
from "best" to "best."
"Well?" he interrogated, and waited.
"I'm goin' to the city, gran'father," the boy said. "I've gotter, on
a--a--errand. I thought I'd tell you."
"Good idea!" nodded the old head on the pillows. The old eyes
twinkled kindly. "I suppose ye want me to go out to your traps, don't
ye? An' do a little trawlin' while I'm out? Jest speak the word!"
Uncle Jemmy said nothing about getting his own dinner, but the boy
had thought of that.
"Judy's comin' in at noon," he explained. "I've got everythin' cooked
up. An' she's goin' to look at my traps when she goes out to hers.
I'll be back in the night, sometime; don't you lay awake for me, now,
gran'father!"
He went out, but presently appeared again, fumbling his best cap in
palpable embarrassment.
"I wish--I don't suppose--you wouldn't mind wishin' me good luck,
gran'father, would you?" he stammered. "I'd kind of like to be wished
good luck."
"Come here where I can reach ye," the old man said cheerily, putting
out his hand. "Wish ye luck? I guess I will! Ye're a good boy, Jemmy.
I don't know what your arrant is, an' I don't need to know, but
here's good luck on it!"
"I tell you what it is, if--if it succeeds," Jem Three said, gripping
the twisted old fingers warmly. "I kind of thought I'd rather not
tell first off. But I can, of course."
"Off with ye, boy! Ye distract me when I'm doin' a bit of thinkin'
for a lady! When ye get good an' ready, then will be time enough to
do your tellin'. Queer if I couldn't trust a Jem!"
The city was twenty miles inland from the little flag-station, and
the flag-station was ten miles away from Jemmy Three. He trudged away
with his precious boots over his shoulder, to be put on at the little
station.
Once in the city, he went directly about his "arrant." He chose a
street set thick with dwelling-houses as like one another as peas in
a pod are like. He tramped down one side of the street, up the other,
till at last he came upon what he sought. A smart sign hung on that
particular house, and Jem Three mounted the high steps and rang the
door-bell.
"Is this a doctor's house? There's a sign that says--"
"The doctor isn't at home," the smart maid said smartly. "Will you
leave your address on the slate, or will you call again at office
hours--two till six."
"I'll call somewheres else," Jem Three said briefly.
He called at many doors in many rows of pea--of houses. It was
sometime before he succeeded in his quest. When at length he found a
doctor at home, he was closeted with him for a brief space and then
drove away with him in a trim little gig to a great, many-windowed
house where pale people were sunning themselves in wheel-chairs about
the doors. Jem Three made a call at the many-windowed house.
* * * * *
It was with considerable curiosity that two people down by the sea
awaited the boy's return from his trip, but oddly enough it was
neither Uncle Jem nor Judith that he sought out at first. It was
Judith's mother, at her work down-beach at the summer cottage. Jemmy
Three went straight to her. He had got home earlier than he expected
and mother had worked later, so they walked back together in the
cool, clear evening, talking all the way.
"Don't tell Judy," the boy said the last thing, as they parted. "I
mean, not _it_. It'll be splendid to surprise her, Mis' Lynn!"
"If we can, Jemmy," the mother answered gently. "If it succeeds. The
more I think of it the more it makes me tremble, Jemmy; but we'll do
our best and leave the part we cant't do with the One who can do it."
The gentle voice trembled into silence. Mother could "make poetry,"
too. Jemmy caught off his hat suddenly, and the very act was a little
prayer.
* * * * *
"Judy, are you awake?"
Mother stood over the bed in her scant white nightgown. When Judith
answered, she sat down beside her and felt for one of her calloused,
oar-toughened little hands.
"Judy, would it be--be all right to use some of the mackerel-money?
Mother's got to go away for a little while--just a little while, Judy.
Jemmy says he talked with a man in the city who would give me some
work to do in his kitchen for a little while. But--why, I thought I'd
take Blossom, Judy, and of course that would mean spending some
money--"
"Blossom!"
Judith sat straight up in bed, her eyes like glints of light in the
darkness.
"Why, yes, dear; she's never been away from the sea in her little
life. You think of that, Judy! You've been away twice. Blossom never
saw a steam-car nor a city, nor--nor heard a hand-organ! Jemmy says he
heard three to-day. You think how pleased Blossom would be to hear a
hand-organ!"
"Sh!" cautioned Judith, "don't wake her, mother. If--she's going, she
mustn't know beforehand."
Blossom going away! Not _Blossom!_ Not put one hand out, so, in the
dark and feel her there beside you--little warm Blossom! Not dress her
in the morning and carry her downstairs--you the chariot and she the
fine lady! Not hurry home to her from the traps! Judith lay and
thought about all that, after mother went away. She put out her hand
on the empty side of the bed, where no Blossom was, and tried to get
used to the emptiness. She said stern things to herself.
"You, Judy, are you selfish as _that?_" she said. "To go and begrudge
your little Blossom a chance to go away and see things and _hear_
things! Don't you want her to hear a hand-organ? And perhaps see a
_monkey?_ When she's never been anywhere, nor heard anything, nor
seen anything! When mother's going, anyway, and can take her as well
as not--you Judy, you Judy, you Judy! Oh, I cant't sleep with you, I'm
so ashamed of you!"
* * * * *
They went at once, and Judith settled down to her loneliness as
best she could, and bore it as bravely. They were to be gone a
month--perhaps two--perhaps three. A month--two, maybe--three,
maybe--without Blossom!
Uncle Jem and Jemmy Three helped out--how much they did help out! Then
there were the rare, precious letters. Judith had never had letters
from mother before in all her sixteen years. She was rather
disappointed that there were no bits of ragged, printed ones from
Blossom, but mother's letters had Blossom-bulletins. Blossom sent her
love, Blossom had heard two hand-organs--three hand-organs; Blossom
said tell Judy she loved her, oh, my! Blossom was very patient and
sweet.
"She's always patient and sweet," wondered Judy. Queer mother put
that in!
"You little sweet, patient Blossom!" Judith's heart cried tenderly,
"when I get you in my arms again--"
Would the time ever come? Why were days made so long? Twenty-four
hours were too many--why weren't they made with only twenty?
"Uncle Jem, why don't you tell _me_ how to be sweet and patient?"
Judith said, folding up the Blossom-bulletin she had been reading to
him. "Tell me a good receipt."
"Well, deary--well, give me time," laughed the cheery old voice. "I
guess we can fix up somethin' that will meet your case."
A very few weeks later Judith went wearily homeward to her lonely
home. She had been out to her traps and down to the hotel with the
lobsters for Mrs. Ben. Her body was weary, but her heart was wearier
still. It did seem, she was telling herself as she plodded through
the sand, as if she could not wait any longer for mother and Blossom
to come home.
Suddenly a clear little trill of laughter crept into her ears and
set her pulses throbbing. Then another trill--then Blossom's voice,
calling something that thrilled her to her soul.
"See me!" called the little triumphant voice of Blossom. And Judy,
lifting frightened eyes and holding her breath as she looked, _saw_.
A small, swaying figure was coming toward her very slowly, over the
hard sand. Blossom--it was Blossom! She was swaying unsteadily a step
or two, but--_she was walking!_
"See me! See me!" cried Blossom. "I'm walkin', Judy, don't you see? I
came a-walkin' down to meet you! It's a s'prise!"
Someone caught up the little figure and came leaping down to Judith
with great strides of triumph.
"That's enough to s'prise her--mustn't do much of it at a time yet,"
Jemmy Three said gayly. "You've got to begin easy. Yes!" in answer to
Judy's speechless pleading, "yes, sir, she's goin' to be a reg'lar
walker, now, ain't you, Blossom? Yes, sir; no more bein' toted--she's
_folks!_"
"Yes, yes, yes!" trilled Blossom exultantly. "They pulled my legs out
an' put 'em in over, where they b'long. Only I've got to go easy till
I'm uncasted."
"Till you're--what? But never mind what! You're my Blossom, and you're
home again, and you're _walking!_" Judith cried in her exceeding
great joy. But by and by Jemmy Three explained.
"They put her legs in kind o' casts, you know, that she cant't have
taken off yet awhile, but when they do take 'em off--"
"Then I'll run!" Blossom interrupted, radiantly.
"Oh, oh--and to think we were going to surprise mother, and you
surprised me!" breathed Judy. "But I thought--_we_ were going across
the ocean--"
"You needn't have," Jemmy said. "That great doctor's over there, but
there's plenty o' second-great ones over here that make children walk
his way. That's what I went to find out. I thought maybe--"
"You went to find out--_you_ thought--oh, Jemmy, what a boy you are!"
"See here--hold on--wait! Let Blossom do it!" warded off Jemmy Three,
backing away precipitately.
The beautiful secret was out. Judith had been "s'prised." There were
still months of uncertainty, but Judith was not uncertain. She went
about in a cloud of rapture. At night she lay awake beside Blossom,
and dreamed her rosy, happy dreams. And, in truth, if she could have
looked ahead into the certain months, and beyond, she would have seen
Blossom walking steadily through all the years.