Kitabı oku: «Hoodie», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XII.
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."

"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.