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Judy, a novel by Temple Bailey |
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Chapter 9. A Blue Monday |
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_ CHAPTER IX. A BLUE MONDAY There was a noisy scrambling in the vines outside of Anne's window early on Monday morning, and the little maid opened her eyes to see Belinda's white head peeping over the sill, and Belinda's white paws holding on like grim death to the ledge. "You darling," cried Anne, sitting up, "come here," and Belinda with a plaintive mew made one last effort, pulled herself into the room, and flew to her mistress' arms. "Where's Becky?" asked Anne, wondering why the tame crow did not follow, for in spite of their constant feuds, the two pets were inseparable. Belinda blinked sagely, while from a shadowy corner of the room came a sepulchral croak. "Are you there, Becky?" called Anne, peering into the darkness, and with a flap and a flutter, Becky swooped from the top of the bookcase, where she had been perched for a half-hour, waiting for Anne to wake. Anne's bookcase was the one thing of value in the little house. It was of rich old mahogany, with diamond-shaped panes in its leaded doors, and behind the doors were books--not many of them, but very choice ones, culled from a fine library which had been sold when ruin came to Anne's grandfather and father one disastrous year. It happened, therefore, that Anne had read much of poetry and history, and the lives of famous people, to say nothing of fairy-tales and legends, so that in the companionship of her books and pets, she had missed little in spite of her poverty and solitary life. "How good it is to be at home," she said, as the sunlight, creeping around the room, shone on the green cover of a much-thumbed book of French fairy-tales, and then slanted off to touch the edge of a blue and gold Tennyson; "how good it is to be at home." "How good it is to be at home," she said again, as followed by Belinda and Becky, she came, a half-hour later, into the sunlit kitchen, where the little grandmother, smiling and rosy, was pouring the steaming breakfast food into a blue bowl. "I was afraid you might find it dull," said the little grandmother, as she kissed her, "after the good times at the Judge's." "Oh, I did have such lovely times," sighed Anne, blissfully. She had sat up late in the moonlight the night before, telling her grandmother of them. "But they didn't make up for you and Becky and Belinda and the little gray house," and she hugged the little grandmother tightly while Belinda and Becky circled around them in great excitement, mingled with certain apprehensions for the waiting breakfast. "But I do hate to start to school again," said Anne, when she finished breakfast, and had given Belinda a saucer of milk and Becky a generous piece of corn bread. "Are the children going to speak their pieces this week?" asked Mrs. Batcheller, as Anne tied on her hat and went out into the garden to gather some roses for the teacher. "Yes, on Saturday," said Anne; "it's going to be awfully nice. I have asked Launcelot and Judy to come to the entertainment, and they have promised to." "I am going to be 'Cinderella' in the tableaux," she went on, as her grandmother brought out the tiny lunch-basket and handed it to her, "and Nannie and Amelia are to be the haughty sisters. We haven't found any boy yet for the prince. I wish Launcelot went to school." "He knows all that Miss Mary could teach him now," said the little grandmother; "his father is preparing him for college, if they ever get money enough to send him there." "Well, if Launcelot's violets sell as well next winter as they did this, he can go, 'specially if his mother keeps her boarders all summer. He told me so the other day, grandmother." "But he would make a lovely prince," she sighed. "Judy is going to lend me a dress. She has a trunk full of fancy costumes." "I hope you know your lessons," said the old lady, as Anne, escorted by her faithful pets, started off. "Oh, I studied them on Friday, before Judy came--how long ago that seems--" and with a rapturous sigh in memory of her three happy days, and with a wave of her hand to the little grandmother, Anne went on her way. Tommy Tolliver came to school that morning in a chastened spirit. He had been lectured by his father, and cried over by his mother, and in the darkness of the night he had resolved many things. But it is not easy to preserve an attitude of humility when one becomes suddenly the center of adoring interest to twenty-five children in a district school. From the babies of the A, B, C, class to the big boys in algebra, Tommy's return was an exciting event, and he was received with acclaim. Hence he boasted and swaggered for them as on Saturday he had boasted and swaggered for Judy's admiration. "You ought to go," he was saying to a small boy, as Anne came up, but when he caught her reproachful eye on him, he backed down, "but not until you are a man, Jimmie," he temporized. During the morning session he was a worry and an aggravation to Miss Mary. The little girls could look at nothing else, for had not Tommy been a sailor, and had he not had experiences which would set him apart from the commonplace boys of Fairfax? And the boys, a little jealous, perhaps, were yet burning with a desire to be the bosom friend of this bold, bad boy, while the luster of his daring lasted. And so they were all restless and inattentive, until finally Miss Mary, who had a headache, lost patience. "You are very noisy," she said, "and I am ashamed of you. I am going to put a list of words on the board, and I want you to copy them five times, while I take the little folks out into the yard for their recess. The rest of you don't deserve any, and will have to wait until noon." That was the first piece of injustice to Anne. She had been as quiet as a mouse all the morning, and Miss Mary should have seen it and not have punished the innocent with the guilty. But Anne was a cheery little soul and never thought of questioning Miss Mary's mandates, and so she went on patiently writing with the rest. Miss Mary stopped in the door long enough to issue an ultimatum. "I shall put you on your honor," she said, "not to talk. And any one who disobeys will be punished." And she went out. For a little while there was perfect decorum. Then Tommy grew restless. Six weeks out of school had made sitting still almost impossible. He wiggled around in his seat, and began to whistle, "A Life on an Ocean Wave." That was a signal for general disorder among the boys. Without speaking a word, and so preserving the letter of the rule, if not the spirit, they, with Tommy as leader, went through various pantomimic performances. They hitched up their trousers in seamanlike fashion, they pretended to row boats, they spit on their hands and hauled in imaginary ropes, and as a climax, Tommy danced a hornpipe on his toes. And then Anne spoke right out--"Oh, Tommy, _don't_," she said, in an agony of fear lest Miss Mary should come in and catch him at it. But Miss Mary did not come, and the little girls giggled and the boys capered, and Anne in despair went on writing her words. When Miss Mary came back finally, with the little people trooping in a rosy row behind her, twenty-five virtuous heads were bent over twenty-five papers. "Did any one speak while I was out?" asked the teacher. A wave of horror swept over Anne. She had not meant to do it, but she had spoken, and to try to explain would be to condemn Tommy and the rest of the school. "Did any one speak?" asked Miss Mary again. Anne stood up, her face flaming. "I--I--did--" she faltered. "Oh, Anne--" said Miss Mary, while the girls and boys dropped their eyes for very shame. "Oh, Anne, why did you do it--" "I just did it--" stammered Anne, who would rather have died than have blamed Tommy, and Nannie, and Amelia, and the rest of her friends. "Well, then," said Miss Mary, firmly, "I'm sorry, but you will have to sit on the platform the rest of the morning, and I can't let you take part in the Saturday's entertainment. I must have order and I will have it." And that was Miss Mary's second piece of injustice. But then she had a headache, and children on Monday mornings are troublesome. For one hour Anne sat with her head held high and her fair little face flushed and burning. But she did not cry. And Tommy, bowed to the ground by his sense of guilt in the matter, did not dare to look at the patient, suffering martyr. It was thus that Launcelot Bart, coming in just before twelve o'clock to see Tommy, found her. As soon as he got Tommy outside of the schoolroom he collared him. "What's the matter with Anne?" he demanded. "She talked in school," said Tommy, doggedly. "I don't believe it." "Well, she did, anyhow." "Whose fault was it?" "Hers, I suppose." "You don't suppose anything of the kind. Anne Batcheller never broke a rule in her life willingly, and you know it, Tommy Tolliver." The children were coming out of the schoolroom in little groups of twos and threes--the girls discussing Anne's martyrdom sympathetically, the boys with hangdog self-consciousness. Inside the room, Anne, released from her ordeal, had gone to her desk and was sitting there with her head up. Her face was white now, the little lunch-basket was open before her, but the cookie and the apple were untouched. Launcelot looked in through the window. "Poor little soul," he murmured. And then Tommy blubbered. "It was really my fault, Launcelot," he confessed. "What!" Tommy explained. "And you let Anne bear it--you let Anne be punished--oh, you miserable--little--little--cur," said the indignant squire of dames, in a white heat. "Aw, what could I do?" whimpered Tommy. "Go in and tell Miss Mary," said Launcelot. "Aw--Launcelot--" "_Go in and tell Miss Mary!_" Tommy went. But Miss Mary did not wish to be bothered. "I made a rule and Anne broke it," she said, when Tommy tried to straighten things out, "and that is all there is to it. Don't talk about it any more, Tommy," and she dismissed him peremptorily. When Tommy told Launcelot the result of the interview, the big boy set his lips in a firm line, and started off down the dusty road. He went straight to town and to Judy. "Oh, oh," said Judy, when she had listened to his tale of woe, "what a mean old thing she is--I hate her--" and her dark eyes flashed. "I don't think Miss Mary is mean," said Launcelot, "but the children _are_ restless, and she isn't very strong, and when she feels badly she takes it out on the scholars." "But to punish Anne," said Judy, and her voice trembled, "dear little Anne--" "She might at least have listened to Tommy's explanation," said Launcelot. After a pause he said: "I came to you because I thought you might go and see Anne after school. It would do her a lot of good. She will be all broken up." "I will go to school and get her," cried Judy, eagerly. "Is it very far?" "I am afraid you couldn't walk," said Launcelot, doubtfully. "I'll drive over in the trap," said Judy. "Grandfather says I can use Vic whenever I want to." "It was pretty mean of Miss Mary to pile it on, I must say," said Launcelot, as he rose to go. "She might have let Anne be in the entertainment." "What?" "She isn't going to let Anne be in it." "Not be 'Cinderella'?" Judy's tone was ominous. "No." "Oh, oh, oh." Judy's hands were clenched fiercely. "I'll get even with her, Launcelot. I'll get even with that teacher yet." Launcelot smiled at her vehemence. "But you can't," he said. "Can't I?" with a shrug of her shoulders. "No." "Wait," said Judy, and not another word could he get out of her on the subject. The afternoon dragged along its interminable length, and Anne, with bursting head, thought that it would never end. "Tick, tock," proclaimed the old school clock, as the hands crept slowly to one, to two, to three. "In five minutes I can go," thought poor little Anne wildly, and just then the school-room door opened, and on the threshold appeared a self-contained young lady in pale violet gingham, and the young lady was asking for Anne Batcheller! "Judy!" said Anne's heart, with a bound, but her lips were still. Miss Mary had seen the Judge's grand-daughter at church the day before, and had been much impressed, and now when Judy asked sweetly if Anne could go, she gave immediate consent. "Of course she may," she said. "Anne, you are dismissed." But her eyes did not meet Anne's eyes as she said it, for Miss Mary's head was better, and she was beginning to wonder if she should not have investigated before she condemned Anne so harshly. Twenty-four heads turned towards the window as Anne and Judy climbed into the fascinating trap with the fawn cloth cushions, and twenty-four pairs of lungs breathed sighs of envy, as Judy picked up the reins, and the two little girls drove away together in the sunshine. _ |
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