HOODIE AWAKES.
"And till we're nice old ladies
We'll love each other so."
When Martin joined the two little girls again, her face looked not only
grave, but white. Maudie felt frightened, she hardly knew why. Hoodie,
in a state of defiance to meet the expected scolding, was so amazed at
its not coming that the surprise kept her quiet. So they all three
walked home in silence, though as fast as possible. No lingering by the
way to gather flowers, or to watch the ducks in Farmer Girton's pond!
Martin held a hand of each little girl, and merely saying now and then,
"We must go straight home, my dears," marched steadily on. It was a
strange, unnatural kind of walk--the children felt something mysterious
about it, without knowing what, and poor Martin's heart was terribly
sore. She _could not_ scold Hoodie, naughty as she had undoubtedly
been, for sad fears were picturing themselves before her--what might not
be the result of Hoodie's disobedience?
"Supposing," thought poor Martin, who was of a very anxious, as well as
affectionate disposition, "supposing this is the last walk we ever have
together? oh dear, oh dear--scarlet fever is an awful thing once it gets
into a family, and the kind that is about is a bad kind, they say."
She did not lose her presence of mind, however. As soon as ever they
reached the house, she sent the two children straight up to Maudie's
room, a plainly furnished little room opening out of the day-nursery,
and told them to wait there till she came to them. Then she went at once
to see their mother, and some time passed before she came up to them.
"What's the matter, Martin?" said Maudie, timidly. "Why do you look so
sad?"
She did not notice that her mother had followed Martin into the room.
"Martin is rather troubled about something," said her mother, "and you
must both try to be very good. And I want to tell you that dear little
Hec and Duke are not coming home this evening. They are going to stay a
few days at the Rectory."
Maudie gazed up into her mother's face. She saw there were tears in her
eyes.
"Mamma!" she exclaimed. Then in a low voice she whispered, "I
understand, mamma. I'll try to be good, and I'll pray to God for us not
to get the catching illness."
Mrs. Caryll stooped and kissed her.
"I knew you would be good, dear, and try to make Hoodie so too. Poor
Hoodie--she does not know what her disobedience may have caused."
The next few days passed slowly and strangely. It was strange and dull
to be without the boys, and to Hoodie it was particularly strange that
no one scolded her for what she knew she had deserved scolding. They
went out for a walk twice a day, by the doctor's orders, who came to see
them the morning after the unfortunate visit to the cottage. Every one
was very kind, but every one looked grave, and very soon Hoodie began to
find it very dull to have no lessons to do, no Hec and Duke to play and
quarrel with, and to have to spend all their time in the two rooms,
except of course when they were out with Martin, who never left them for
a minute. It was very dull, but worse was to follow. On the morning of
the sixth day, Maudie woke with a headache, and a bad pain in her
throat, and bravely as she tried to bear it, it was plain to be seen
that the poor little girl was suffering very much. Martin would not let
her get up, and an hour or two after breakfast, Hoodie, sitting alone
and very disconsolate in the day-nursery, heard Dr. Reynolds and her
mother coming up-stairs. She jumped up and ran to meet them.
"Mamma," she said, "Martin won't let me play with Maudie, and I've
nothing to do. Martin is very cross."
Mrs. Caryll looked gravely at Hoodie.
"Hoodie," she said, "you _must_ be obedient."
"And Miss Maudie doesn't want her, ma'am," said Martin, appearing at the
door of Maudie's room. "She can't bear the least noise; and any way it's
better for Miss Hoodie not to be near her, isn't it, sir?" she asked,
turning to the doctor.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"As to infection," he said, "separating them now is a chance the more,
that's all one can say. But one must do one's best. And in any case the
child is better out of a fevered atmosphere. I would prepare another
room for her, I think," he added to Mrs. Caryll, and then they both went
into Maudie's room, and Hoodie heard no more.
Hoodie sat by herself, drumming her little fat legs on the side of the
table.
"I wonder what they mean," she said to herself. "I wonder what the
doctor means about affection. That's loving--at least people always put
it at the end of their letters whether they're loving or not. I think
people tells lots of stories when they'se big--_lotser_ than when
they'se little. And it's all that horrid Martin that's stoppened my
going into Maudie's room--I don't believe Maudie said she didn't want
me."
Just then Martin put her head out at the doorway of the inner room.
"Miss Hoodie," she said, "please ring the bell--there's no bell in
here--and when Jane comes up, tell her to send Lucy to speak to me at
the other door--the door that opens to the passage."
Hoodie executed the commission with great alacrity--even having a
message to give was better than having nothing at all to do, and ringing
the bell had always been greatly after Hoodie's own heart.
Somewhat to her surprise, a few minutes after Jane had gone down again
in search of Lucy, Lucy herself came into the nursery.
"You were to go to the _other_ door. What a time you've been of coming
up," said Hoodie, politely.
"I've _been_ to the other door, Miss Hoodie, and Martin has told me what
she wants me to do," replied Lucy. "Poor Martin, I'm right down sorry
for her, and poor little Miss Maudie," said Lucy. "Now, Miss Hoodie, I'm
going to take you out into the garden a little, and when we come in I'm
going to stay with you in the sewing-room."
Lucy's manner had become more decided, and somehow Hoodie did not make
any objection. She let Lucy put on her hat and take her into the garden,
quietly enough.
"Is Maudie _very_ ill, Lucy?" she asked.
"I hope not," said Lucy, "but it's too soon to say much yet."
"Why are you sorry for Martin?" was Hoodie's next inquiry.
"Oh, because it's such a upset, and her that's that fond of you all,"
said Lucy. "I'm sure if there's anything I can do, I'll be only too
glad. I'm very glad I've had the fever."
"Why are you glad? When did you have it, and was it the affection fever
like what Maudie's got?" asked Hoodie.
Lucy did not laugh. She was rather a matter-of-fact girl.
"I had it when I was six, and people don't often, almost never, have it
twice," she replied. "That's how I'm to take care of you, Miss Hoodie,
otherwise they'd have been afraid of my catching it. Your mamma's a very
kind lady that way, and it's dreadfully catching--just see how poor Miss
Maudie's got it with that one minute in that cottage the other day."
Hoodie stared at her.
"Did Maudie catch it that day she ran to tell me to come away from the
baby's mother's cottage?" she said.
Lucy stared at her in turn.
"Of course," she said. "Didn't you know that, Miss Hoodie? It can't be
helped now, you see, and we must hope Miss Maudie will get better. But
it'll be a lesson to you to be obedient another time. Let's go and
gather some flowers, Miss Hoodie, and make a little nosegay for you to
send in to Miss Maudie."
But Hoodie shook her head, and she had a look in her face which made
Lucy wish she had not told her what she had, though never doubting but
that the child already knew it.
"Maudie wouldn't care for any flowers from _me_. Nobody will ever love
me at all now," she said. "It was me that made Maudie ill. Oh, I do wish
God had made me ill instead of Maudie, for everybody loves her, and
nobody loves me."
"Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, really startled. "You _mustn't_ talk so.
Everybody would love you just as they do Miss Maudie if you'd try to be
a good and obedient little girl."
Hoodie shook her head again.
"You don't know, Lucy," she said. "I have tried and it isn't any good,
so I've left off."
Lucy trembled a little as to what this announcement might be followed up
by, in the way of special naughtiness. But her fears were misplaced.
Hoodie was perfectly good and gentle all day--almost too much so indeed;
Lucy would have liked to see a touch of her old self-will and petulance,
for she could not help fearing she was to blame for the strange
depression of Hoodie's spirits. She was very kind and good to the little
girl, and did her utmost to amuse her, but it was a strange, sad time.
The house, lately so cheerful with children's voices and the patter of
their restless little feet up and down the passages, was now silent and
gloomy, and the servants spoke with hushed voices and went about with
anxious looks. Hoodie was not allowed to go near Maudie's room--she only
saw her mother and Martin now and then at the end of the passage, or out
of the window, for they were both engrossed in nursing Maudie. Every
morning Hoodie sent Lucy as soon as she awoke to ask for news of
Maudie, and though she said very little, there was a look in her eyes
when Lucy brought back the answer--"Not much better yet, Miss
Hoodie,"--that went to Lucy's heart.
"I'll never say Miss Hoodie has no feelings again," she said to herself,
"never."
After a few days there came a morning when Lucy, who was not very clever
at hiding _her_ feelings, came back to Hoodie looking graver than usual,
and with something very like tears in her eyes.
"Isn't Maudie better _yet_, Lucy?" asked Hoodie with a sad sort of
impatience.
"She couldn't be better _yet_, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, "an illness like
that always takes its time."
"But is she _worser_ then?" said Hoodie, staring up in Lucy's face.
"I'm afraid she is, rather. Her throat's so sore," said Lucy, turning
away.
Hoodie said nothing, but sat down quietly on her little chair, leaning
her head on her hands. A few minutes after, Lucy went down to the
kitchen with Hoodie's breakfast things--she happened not to shut the
door firmly, as the tray was in her hands, and when she came up-stairs
again, she was surprised to hear some one talking in the room.
"Who can it be?" she said to herself, for Mrs. Caryll had given strict
orders that in case of any infection about Hoodie herself, none of the
other servants were to be with her. Lucy stopped a minute to listen. The
voice was Hoodie's own. She was kneeling in a corner of the room, and
the words Lucy overheard were these--
"Maudie is worser," Hoodie was saying, "Maudie is worser, and if she
keeps getting worser she'll die. And it wasn't Maudie's fault that she
got the affection fever. It was Hoodie's fault. Oh, please, dear God,
make Maudie better, and Hoodie won't mind if _she_ gets the fever, 'cos
it was her fault. Hoodie's been so naughty, and poor Maudie's good. And
everybody loves Maudie, but nobody _can_ love Hoodie. So please, dear
God, make Maudie better," and then she ended in her usual fashion--"For
Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
Lucy stood holding her breath at the door. When she saw that Hoodie got
up from kneeling and sat quietly down on her chair again, she ventured
to enter the room. Hoodie looked at her rather suspiciously.
"Lucy," she said, with a touch of her old imperiousness, "I think you
should 'amember to knock at the door."
"Very well, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy meekly, for somehow she could not
have helped agreeing with whatever Hoodie chose to say, "I'll not forget
again."
Hoodie sat quite quiet, still leaning her head on her hands, doing
nothing and seeming to wish for nothing.
"Are you not well to-day, Miss Hoodie?" Lucy asked at last.
"Yes," said Hoodie, "I'm kite well, and I think Maudie'll be better
to-morrow."
But all day long she continued very, very quiet, and once or twice Lucy
wondered if she should let Hoodie's mother or Martin know how strange
the child seemed.
"I'll wait till to-morrow, any way," she decided. "It seems a shame to
trouble them more to-day, for this has been much the worst day with Miss
Maudie, I fancy. It's to be hoped it's the turn."
And when to-morrow morning came she was glad she had not troubled them,
for Hoodie seemed better and brighter than for some days past. She did
not seem impatient for the news of Maudie, not as impatient as Lucy
herself, who ran along to tap at Martin's door as soon as she awoke, and
came back with a relieved face to tell Hoodie that the news was much
better this morning, Maudie seemed really to have got the turn.
"I knew she'd be better to-day," said Hoodie, composedly. "Didn't I tell
you so, Lucy?"
And when they went out into the garden she carefully gathered a nosegay
for Maudie, choosing the prettiest flowers and tying them together with
a piece of ribbon she took off one of her dolls.
"Take those to Maudie's room, Lucy," she said, "and tap at the door, and
tell Martin they're for Miss Maudie with Miss Hoodie's love, and she's
very glad she's better."
[Illustration: "Tell Martin they're for Miss Maudie with Miss Hoodie's
love."]
"Miss Maudie will be pleased, I'm sure," said Lucy, thinking to herself
as she said so how very pretty Miss Hoodie was looking. Her eyes were so
bright, and her cheeks so rosy, and on her face there was such a pretty
smile while she was arranging the flowers, that Lucy could not resist
stooping down to kiss her.
"Never was a sweeter child than she can be when she likes," said Lucy to
herself, as she made her way with the nosegay and the message to
Maudie's room.
Altogether things were beginning to look much brighter again, and,
reassured as to Maudie's being really better, Mrs. Caryll went to bed
that night for the first time for a fortnight, with a lighter heart.
"Maudie is much better," she had written that evening to Cousin
Magdalen, "and it is not now likely that Hoodie will get the fever, as
so many days have passed. Somehow I have never felt very uneasy about
Hoodie from the first, though 'by rights,' as the children say, she
should have had it and not poor Maudie, as it all came through her
disobedience. And even if she had got it, I should not have felt so
anxious as about Maudie--Hoodie is so very strong. But I hope now that
we need not be anxious about either, and that our troubles are passing
over."
Poor Mrs. Caryll would not have written so cheerfully had she known that
that very afternoon Lucy's fears about Hoodie had again been aroused.
The little girl would not eat anything at tea-time, though she drank
eagerly two or three cups of milk. And after tea she said her head
ached, and she was so sleepy and tired that Lucy thought it well to put
her early to bed.
"Such a pity," thought Lucy, "just when she was looking so bright this
morning. I wish I could think she had just caught cold, but the
weather's so fine, it's not likely."
All night Hoodie tossed about uneasily. She started and talked in her
sleep, and by morning she looked so flushed and strange that Lucy felt
that she must at once tell Martin, and that there could be no question
of Hoodie's getting up and being dressed. She wanted to get up, poor
little girl, but her head felt so giddy when she raised it from the
pillow that she was glad to lay it down again. And before the day was
many hours older, there was no doubt that Hoodie had got the fever.
She knew it herself, though nothing was said about it before her, and
she had her own thoughts about it in her mind, which she expressed to
Lucy when no one else was there.
"I've got the affection fever, Lucy," she said. "I'm sure I have, 'cos I
asked God to make Maudie better 'cos it wasn't her fault, and I said I
wouldn't mind if I had it, 'cos it was my fault."
And poor Lucy, not knowing what to say, turned away to hide the tears in
her eyes.
"I don't think we need be anxious about her," said Mrs. Caryll to the
doctor, "she is so much stronger than Maudie."
But Dr. Reynolds did not reply very heartily; the truth being that he
saw from the first that Hoodie was likely to be much more ill than
Maudie had been. And Hoodie herself from the first, too, seemed to have
a strange, babyish instinct that it was so.
"I'm glad Maudie is better," she said often during the first day or
two, to Lucy, "'cos you know it wasn't her fault. I don't mind having
the affection fever, but it is rather sore. Everybody loves Maudie so,
it's a good thing she's better."
"But everybody loves you too, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, tenderly,
"specially when you're such a good, patient little girl."
Hoodie made a movement as if she would have shaken her head, only the
poor little head was too heavy and aching to shake.
"No, Lucy," she said, "not like Maudie, 'cos she's so good, and I'm not.
I did try, but I had to leave off. And my bird's dead, you know, though
I did ask God to take care of it every time I said my prayers. But I'm
glad God's made Maudie better. I 'appose it's 'cos she's good. But I
don't mind having the fever--not now my bird's dead, 'cos he did love
me, didn't he, Lucy?"
Her mind was beginning to wander, and for many days and nights Hoodie
knew nothing of anything that passed about her. Sometimes she seemed in
a sort of stupor, at others she would talk incessantly in her little
weak childish voice, till it made one's heart ache to hear her. She did
not suffer so much from her throat as Maudie had done, though otherwise
so much more ill. The fever seemed to have seized her in its strong,
cruel arms with so hard a grasp, that often and often it appeared to
those about her as if it never again would let her go, but would carry
her away out of their sight, without her even being able to bid them
good-bye--murmuring ever those sad words which seemed to be burnt into
her childish brain, about nobody loving her because she wasn't good like
Maudie, about having tried in vain to be good, and that her birdie was
dead and God didn't love her either, always ending up that it was a good
thing Maudie was better, "wasn't it, Lucy?" Though when poor Lucy choked
down her tears to answer cheerfully "Yes, indeed, Miss Hoodie," poor
Hoodie could not hear her voice, and began again the same weary
murmurings.
It was very sad for them all--most sad of all for Hoodie's mother, whose
heart grew sore as she listened to her poor little girl's faint words.
It seemed to her that never before had she understood her child, and the
great longing for love that had been hidden in her queer-tempered,
fanciful nature.
"Oh, Hoodie darling, we do love you--dearly, dearly," she would
sometimes say as she bent over her; but the bright eyes, too bright by
far, gazed up without seeing, and the weary little head, shorn of its
pretty tangle of fuzzy hair, moved restlessly on the pillow, while
Hoodie kept talking about her dead bird and nobody loving her, through
the slow weary hours while life and death were fighting over her little
bed.
"If she dies without knowing us again, it will break my heart," said
Hoodie's mother to the doctor; and what could he say, poor man, but
shake his head sorrowfully in sympathy?
They tried to prevent Maudie knowing how ill Hoodie was, but it was
impossible. When people are ill, or recovering from illness, they seem
to guess things in a way that is sometimes quite astonishing, and so it
was with Maudie. She was now much better--she had been half-dressed and
lifted on to a sofa in her own room some days ago, but when she found
out about Hoodie, she fretted so dreadfully that it threatened to make
her ill again.
"Oh, do let me see her!" she cried. "I don't mind if she's too ill to
know me. I don't mind if she can't speak to me, but I must see her. Poor
Hoodie, dear little Hoodie," she went on, the tears streaming down her
face. "Oh, mamma, I don't think I was always very kind to her. I used to
tell her we'd be happier without her, but I _do_ love her. Oh, do let me
see her!"
For unfortunately, through hearing some of the servants talking, Maudie
knew some part of what Hoodie had been saying in her unconsciousness,
and it was this that was distressing her so greatly.
Oh, children dear, remember this--there is no pain so terrible, no
suffering so without comfort, as the feeling sorrow _too late_ for
unkindness or want of tenderness to others--little sharp words which did
not seem so bad at the time, careless or selfish neglect of the wishes
we could have gratified with just a little trouble--how they all rise up
_afterwards_ and refuse to be forgotten! Our grief may then exaggerate
our past unkindness perhaps, and, as is the way with our weak human
nature, things out of our reach seem of double value; the affection we
knew to be always at hand we never prized enough till we lost it. But
should we not take this as a warning? Avoid the _habit_ of small
unkindnesses, of sharp, hurting words--even though in your heart you do
not mean them. Try, my darlings, every hour and every day, to behave to
each other as you would wish to have behaved, were this day to be your
last together. Then indeed even the sore parting of death would lose
half its bitterness--the kingdom of Heaven would already have begun in
your own hearts--the happy kingdom where there is neither sorrow nor
bitterness, nor tears--the kingdom over which reigns the beautiful
Spirit of Love.
At last there came a day on which the doctor said that without risk
Maudie might be taken to see Hoodie--only to see her--there was no
thought of her speaking to Hoodie, or Hoodie to her, for the little girl
was lying in a stupor--quite quiet and unconscious, and out of this
stupor, though he did not say so, Dr. Reynolds had but little hope of
her waking to life again. The fever had let her go at last, had thrown
her down, as it were, careless of how she fell, and the poor little
shaken worn-out Hoodie that it had left there, white and thin and
lifeless, hardly seemed as if it _could_ ever rouse up again to live and
talk and play--and there was nothing to do but to wait.
So Maudie was carried into the room where this unfamiliar Hoodie was
lying, and allowed to look at her poor little face and to cry quietly to
herself as she looked. In whose arms, children, do you think she was
carried? It was in Magdalen's. When she heard of the trouble that had
fallen over her little friends she could not rest till she came to them.
She had had the fever long ago, she wrote; she was so strong that
nursing never made her ill or tired--she could sit up a whole week of
nights without being knocked up. But when she arrived she found that in
the way of actual nursing there was little to do. Hoodie lay still and
lifeless--all the restlessness gone; for her indeed, it seemed to
Magdalen, there would never again be anything to do, no care and
tenderness to bestow--and the thought brought burning tears to poor
Magdalen's eyes, though she bravely drove them back, and did her best to
comfort Maudie and her mother.
"Cousin Magdalen," said Maudie, when they had sat for a few minutes by
Hoodie's bed, "Cousin Magdalen, can't we do _anything_ to make her
better? Oh, dear, dear little Hoodie, oh, how I wish I had never been
the least bit not kind to her."
Then raising herself in her cousin's arms, she knelt on her lap, and
leaning her head on Magdalen's shoulder, she said, while her voice was
broken with sobs--
"Oh, dear God, _please_ make Hoodie better. We do so love her--and she
doesn't know how we love her, because I've been unkind to her sometimes.
Oh, dear God, _please_ make her better."
And then, her voice changing a little, as if she were afraid that her
simple entreaty was hardly solemn enough to be considered "prayer," she
added, like Hoodie, "For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
A slight movement just then made itself heard in Hoodie's cot; a
flutter more than anything else. Magdalen, gently putting Maudie on her
chair, started up in alarm. She knew that any change in Hoodie was now
most critical. She bent over the child, the better to observe her. A
faint smile came fluttering to Hoodie's face, and in another moment,
with a little effort, she opened her eyes. But she did not seem to see,
or if she saw, she did not recognize, Magdalen, for the word that she
whispered was "Maudie."
Low as it was Maudie heard it.
"She's speaking to me," she exclaimed. "Yes, Hoodie dear, what is it?"
Magdalen lifted her on to the bed. She could not refuse, though afraid
that perhaps she was not doing right. The two little sisters lay close
together.
"Maudie," whispered Hoodie again, in a little, weak, faint voice.
"Maudie, I was waking, and I heard you speaking so nice. I heard you say
'Please God make Hoodie better, 'cos we _do_ so love her.' I didn't know
that, Maudie, I've been so naughty. But if you want me to get better
I'll try. God's been very kind except that He let birdie die. But I love
you better than birdie, Maudie, and perhaps God'll make me better too."
She could not say any more, but she smiled again as Maudie, put her
arms round her and covered her face with loving kisses. Then Martin,
whom Magdalen had summoned, gave her the wine the doctor had ordered in
case of her awaking; Hoodie took it meekly, and then turning her head on
the pillow murmured gently, "I'm very sleepy, but I'll soon get better.
The affection fever was very sore, Maudie."
Hoodie was right. From that moment she did begin to get better. They
were still very anxious about her--there were many days still to pass
before it was quite sure that she was out of danger, and for many more
after that she was so weak that it hardly seemed as if a child's usual
strength could ever come back to her. But in time all came right, and
terribly ill as she had been, the fever left no lasting harm. And the
life that began for the two little sisters from this time was a bright
and peaceful one--they had learnt to value each other and each other's
love as never before, and from the moment that it came home to Hoodie,
that she really took into her fanciful little heart, how dearly she was
loved, half her troubles seemed at an end. Day by day she learned new
ways in which even she, a little simple child, might help and comfort
and cheer those about her--she lost the old sore feeling of being
nothing but a trouble and a worry, an "alvays naughty" Hoodie, and
never again was any one tempted to say that among the fairies invited to
baby Julian's christening, those of sweet temper and unselfishness had
been forgotten.
* * * * *
They are grown-up now--much more than grown-up. If you met them in the
street, if they came to call on your mother some day, you would not
guess they were quiet little Maudie and queer-tempered Hoodie. And as
for Hec and Duke!--they could jump you up on their great strong
shoulders as easily as the ogres they used to be so fond of making up
stories about. There is only one thing which, if you heard it said, as
it often is, might remind you of the children I have been telling you
about. Men and women as they are, separated sometimes by half the world,
it has always been remarked of them how much they love each
other--brothers and sisters in deed, as well as in name, friends tried
and true to each other through all the difficulties and sorrows and
troubles which have come to them as to every one else in this world of
many colours; of rainy as well as of sunny days--of discouragement and
disappointment, but of happiness too--and love through all.
Cousin Magdalen's dark hair is beginning to get white now, but still I
feel sure you would think her very pretty. Did she ever write out the
story that she promised to tell Hoodie and the others some day? By the
bye I must not forget to ask her the next time we meet.
[Illustration]
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