Hoodie Part 30

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_. n.o.body will ever love me at all now," she said. "It was me that made Maudie ill. Oh, I do wish G.o.d had made me ill instead of Maudie, for everybody loves her, and n.o.body 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 pa.s.sages, 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 pa.s.sage, 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 G.o.d, 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 n.o.body _can_ love Hoodie. So please, dear G.o.d, 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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, rea.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed. 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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d to take care of it every time I said my prayers. But I'm glad G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.body loving her because she wasn't good like Maudie, about having tried in vain to be good, and that her birdie was dead and G.o.d 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.