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Judy, a novel by Temple Bailey |
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Chapter 10. Mistress Mary |
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_ CHAPTER X. MISTRESS MARY No one ever knew how Judy managed to get the Judge's consent, but on Wednesday, when the children on their way home from school called at the post-office for the mail, they found small square envelopes addressed to themselves, and each envelope contained a card, and on the card was written an invitation to every child to be present at a lawn party to be given at Judge Jameson's on the following Saturday, from one until five o'clock. But this was not all. For during the evening, rumors, started by the wily Launcelot, leaked out, that never in the history of Fairfax had there been such a party as the one to be given by Judge Jameson in honor of his grand-daughter, Judith, and her friend, Anne Batcheller. "For it is as much Anne's party as Judy's," Launcelot stated, as one having authority. After the first jubilation, however, the young people looked at each other with blank faces. "It is the same afternoon as the school entertainment," wailed Amelia Morrison. "An' we've got to speak our pieces," said little Jimmie Jones. But Nannie May cut the Gordian knot with her usual impetuosity. "I am going to Judy's party," she declared, "and I am going to get mother to write a note to Miss Mary." Many were the notes that went to Miss Mary that day. All sorts of excuses were given by the ambitious mothers, who would not have had their offspring miss the opportunity of seeing the inside of the most exclusive house in Fairfax for all the school entertainments in the world! And Miss Mary! She had invited the school board and a half-dozen pedagogues from neighboring districts. She had trained the children until they were letter perfect. She had drilled them in their physical exercises until they moved like machines, and now at the eleventh hour they were fluttering away from her like a flock of unruly birds, and she recognized at once that Judy had championed Anne's cause, and that in her she had an adversary to be feared. In vain she expostulated with the mothers. "Saturday isn't a regular school-day, you know, Miss Mary," said Mrs. Morrison, sitting down ponderously to argue the question with the teacher, "and of course the Judge couldn't know that it would interfere with your plans." Miss Mary was convinced that the Judge _did_ know, but she didn't quite dare to argue the question with him. She was conscious that she had been over-severe, and that the Judge, who believed in justice first, last, and all the time, would not uphold her. And so the plans for the party went on. "We will have games," said Judy, "and we won't have anything old like 'Cinderella.' Has anybody got an idea?" She and Anne and Launcelot were in the Judge's garden, and it was Thursday evening, and there wasn't a great deal of time to get ready for Saturday's festivities. "We might have some one read poems, and have living pictures to illustrate them," suggested Anne. "What poems?" asked Judy, not quite sure that she liked the idea. "There are some lovely things in Tennyson," said the little girl; "there's the Sleeping Beauty for one. You could be the Beauty, Judy, and Launcelot could be the prince--it would be just lovely--we could have little Jimmie Jones for the page, and Nannie and Amelia for ladies-in-waiting, and you could be asleep on the couch, while some one read:
"Oh," Judy's eyes were alight, "how lovely that is--I never read that, Anne." "Well, you hate books, you know," and Anne dimpled at her retort. "I shouldn't hate that kind," and Judy resolved that she would know more about that princess. "And we could have the arrival of the prince, and the awakening, and their departure:
Then she blushed and blushed as the astonished Launcelot and Judy praised her. "I never dreamed that you knew so much poetry," cried Launcelot, seeing her in a new and more respectful light. "Oh, it just sings itself," said Anne. "When you read it a few times you can't help reciting it." "But I am not going to be the only one," said Judy. "What part will you take, Anne?" "I don't know." "Who's your favorite heroine in Tennyson, Anne?" asked Launcelot. "Elaine." "Then Elaine it shall be--" "And you must be Lancelot," cried Anne, eagerly. "But he _is_ Launcelot," said puzzled Judy. Anne and Launcelot laughed. "Well, you see," said Anne, "in the poem Elaine is in love with a knight named Lancelot, and he doesn't love her, and she dies, and when she is dead they put her on a barge and send her to the court of King Arthur, where Lancelot is one of the knights, and there is a letter to him in her hand, and a lily, and it's lovely," she finished breathlessly. "We shall have a hard time to build a barge," said Launcelot, with a shake of his head. "But we must have that scene, Launcelot," insisted Anne. "Never mind," said Judy, who believed that all difficulties could be surmounted in this line, "we will find something. How many pictures shall we have for 'Elaine,' Anne?" "We could have her giving him the 'red sleeve broider'd with pearls,' and then we could have him ill in the cave, and the scene in the garden, and at her window when he rides away, and then on the barge." "We'll have to outline the story," said Launcelot; "the poem would be too long." "But we could get in some of it, like the little song about Love and Death," said Anne, anxiously, for being too young to know tragedy or love, she was yet enamoured by that which was beyond her comprehension. It took all the next day for them to get things ready, but everything went beautifully. Dr. Grennel promised to read the poems. Perkins, though depressed at the prospect of more undignified gayety, gave permission to use the dining-room for the tableaux, and the little grandmother promised to spend all of Saturday with the Judge and his sister, thus giving Anne a crowning delight. And then, at the last minute, Anne spoiled everything! "I can't bear to think of poor Miss Mary," she sobbed, late on Saturday morning, when Judy found her crouched up in the window-seat overlooking the garden. "What?" "I can't bear to think about poor Miss Mary," repeated Anne, dabbing her eyes with her wet handkerchief. "What's the matter?" asked Launcelot, as Judy stood speechless. He was outside of the window, where he was helping Perkins place the tables and arrange the chairs in the garden. Anne's woebegone face bobbed up over the window-sill. "I can't bear to think of Miss Mary. All alone while we shall be having such a good time," she wailed. "I wish we could invite her." Judy stamped her foot. "Anne Batcheller," she cried, tempestuously, "you are too good to live," and she went out of the room like a whirlwind. She went straight to the Judge and Mrs. Batcheller, who were chatting together in the dimness and quiet of the great parlor. "I sha'n't have anything to do with the lawn party, grandfather," she blazed, after she had told her story, "if that teacher is to be invited!" But the Judge's eyes were dreamy. "Dear little tender-heart," he said. "She teaches us a lesson of forgiveness," said Mrs. Batcheller, who with the Judge had deeply resented the treatment accorded Anne on that fateful Monday morning. "Perhaps it would be best to ask Miss Mary," ventured the Judge. "If she would come," said Mrs. Batcheller, doubtfully. But Judy would not listen to reason or argument. "Do you think we ought to back down now," she demanded of Launcelot, who, with Anne, had followed her to the parlor to talk things over. "No," he said, slowly, "I don't think we ought to back down. But I guess we shall have to." "Why?" Launcelot's eyes went to the sobbing figure in the little grandmother's arms. "We can't make her unhappy," he said in a low voice. "Anne?" "Yes." "Everything is spoiled now," said Judy, chokingly, "everything. And I took such an interest. I think it's mean--mean--mean--" Her voice grew very shrill, and her face was red. Mrs. Batcheller started to speak, but the Judge raised his hand to stop the untimely lecture. "Wait!" he said. Something in his kind old face reminded Judy suddenly of the story he had told her just a week before--of her grandmother and how she had conquered her temper. With a strong effort she kept back the words of furious disappointment that she had intended to hurl at these weak-spirited people. Then she whisked out of the room and down the hall, and presently Launcelot, who had followed her, came back laughing but mystified. "She is walking around the oval in the garden," he said, "as fast as she can go, and she won't stop." The Judge slapped his hand on his knee. "By George," he said, with a sigh of relief, "she's done it!" But when Anne asked him to explain, he shook his head. "That's a secret between Judy and me," he said, "and I can't tell it," and over her head he smiled at Mrs. Batcheller, who knew the story, and had often laughed with Judy's grandmother over it. Judy came in, finally, rosy and breathless. "Oh, invite your Miss Mary if you want to," she panted, as she kissed the tear-streaked face. "But don't expect me to act too saint-like. I am not made of the same stuff that you are, Anne." "You are a brick," Launcelot pronounced later, when they were alone in the dining-room superintending the putting up of the stage; "it was harder for you to give up than for Anne." "No, I'm not a brick." said Judy, a little wearily, "I am just hateful. But I do try," and his praise meant much to her, and helped her afterwards. Miss Mary sat alone and discouraged when the note of invitation was handed to her. She had sent letters to the school board and the other teachers, pleading "unavoidable postponement," and now she was correcting papers with an aching head. "Dear Miss Mary,"--said Anne's little note,--"Please come to our party to-day. It is going to be very nice, and we are sorry we set the same day as the school entertainment, and we won't be happy if you are not here. Please forgive us, and come. Your affectionate scholar, Anne." And below the Judge had added, "I am anxious to supplement Anne's invitation and apology and to say with her, 'Please forgive us and come.'" "I won't go," said Miss Mary at first, bitterly. But when she had read the little letter again, she changed her mind. "She is a dear child," she said. And she washed her face and combed her hair, and put on her best white dress and her new summer hat with the roses in it, and went out looking young and pretty and with her headache forgotten. And when she arrived at the Judge's she was escorted to a seat of honor in the front row, with the Judge on one side, and the little grandmother on the other, and with the astonished children smiling welcomes to her as she went up the aisle. _ |
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