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."
