Judith Lynn Part 7

"They've gone away!" she said thickly. It takes time for throbbing throats to come back to their own. "It's too late to find out. If I'd gone yesterday--" She stopped hastily, on the verge of fresh tears.

"Go ahead, little un; weather's a little too thick yet to see clear.

Who's gone away? What's it too late for?" But even as he said it, Uncle Jem, too, understood. He went on without waiting, to give Judith more time.

"Hold on!--I can pull out o' the fog myself. That mother o' that little cured un--she's the one that's gone away, eh? You was too late to see her an' ask your questions. I see. Well, now, I call that too bad. But 'tain't worth another cry, deary."

"Well, I won't cry another one, so there!" cried Judith. "Only--only--"

"I know--I know! We've got to slew off on another tack. You give Uncle Jem time to think, Judy. There's a powerful lot o' thinkin'-time handy when you lay here on your back for a livin'. Jest you run home an' let your ma put you to bed. I've heard all about your goin's-on, an' I guess bed's the best place for you! I'll think it out while you're restin' up."

But to unlettered people who rarely get in touch with what is going on in the thick of things, "thinking it out" is no easy matter. Their one frail little hold on the miracle that could make Blossom whole had snapped when the hotel mother and child went away. Where to turn next for information--what to do next--was a puzzle that would not unravel for any of them. In vain Uncle Jem wrestled with it, as he lay through long, patient hours. And Judith wrestled untiringly.

The mackerel-money came in due time, but the wondrous little blue check that came out of the official-looking envelope and lay outspread on Judith's hard, brown palm had lost its power to give legs to little Blossom, and Judith gazed at it resentfully. What was the use of it now? A small part of it would get the little wheel-chair, but it was not a wheel-chair Judith longed for now. She put away the blue check safely, and took up the wrestling again. She would find the clue to the puzzle--she refused to give it up.

Then quite privately and uninvited, Jemmy Three began to think. No one had thought of asking his advice; thinking had never been Jemmy Three's stronghold.

He went into his grandfather's room one early morning arrayed in his best clothes. Not much in the way of a "best," but Jemmy had "pieced out" as well as possible with sc.r.a.ps of his dead father's best that had been packed away. He looked unduly big and plain and awkward in the unaccustomed finery, but the freckles across the deep brown background of his face spelled d-e-t-e-r-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n. Uncle Jem spelled it out slowly. His astonished gaze wandered downward, then, from "best" to "best."

"Well?" he interrogated, and waited.

"I'm goin' to the city, gran'father," the boy said. "I've gotter, on a--a--errand. I thought I'd tell you."

"Good idea!" nodded the old head on the pillows. The old eyes twinkled kindly. "I suppose ye want me to go out to your traps, don't ye? An' do a little trawlin' while I'm out? Jest speak the word!"

Uncle Jemmy said nothing about getting his own dinner, but the boy had thought of that.

"Judy's comin' in at noon," he explained. "I've got everythin' cooked up. An' she's goin' to look at my traps when she goes out to hers.

I'll be back in the night, sometime; don't you lay awake for me, now, gran'father!"

He went out, but presently appeared again, fumbling his best cap in palpable embarra.s.sment.

"I wish--I don't suppose--you wouldn't mind wishin' me good luck, gran'father, would you?" he stammered. "I'd kind of like to be wished good luck."

"Come here where I can reach ye," the old man said cheerily, putting out his hand. "Wish ye luck? I guess I will! Ye're a good boy, Jemmy.

I don't know what your arrant is, an' I don't need to know, but here's good luck on it!"

"I tell you what it is, if--if it succeeds," Jem Three said, gripping the twisted old fingers warmly. "I kind of thought I'd rather not tell first off. But I can, of course."

"Off with ye, boy! Ye distract me when I'm doin' a bit of thinkin'

for a lady! When ye get good an' ready, then will be time enough to do your tellin'. Queer if I couldn't trust a Jem!"

The city was twenty miles inland from the little flag-station, and the flag-station was ten miles away from Jemmy Three. He trudged away with his precious boots over his shoulder, to be put on at the little station.

Once in the city, he went directly about his "arrant." He chose a street set thick with dwelling-houses as like one another as peas in a pod are like. He tramped down one side of the street, up the other, till at last he came upon what he sought. A smart sign hung on that particular house, and Jem Three mounted the high steps and rang the door-bell.

"Is this a doctor's house? There's a sign that says--"

"The doctor isn't at home," the smart maid said smartly. "Will you leave your address on the slate, or will you call again at office hours--two till six."

"I'll call somewheres else," Jem Three said briefly.

He called at many doors in many rows of pea--of houses. It was sometime before he succeeded in his quest. When at length he found a doctor at home, he was closeted with him for a brief s.p.a.ce and then drove away with him in a trim little gig to a great, many-windowed house where pale people were sunning themselves in wheel-chairs about the doors. Jem Three made a call at the many-windowed house.

It was with considerable curiosity that two people down by the sea awaited the boy's return from his trip, but oddly enough it was neither Uncle Jem nor Judith that he sought out at first. It was Judith's mother, at her work down-beach at the summer cottage. Jemmy Three went straight to her. He had got home earlier than he expected and mother had worked later, so they walked back together in the cool, clear evening, talking all the way.

"Don't tell Judy," the boy said the last thing, as they parted. "I mean, not _it_. It'll be splendid to surprise her, Mis' Lynn!"

"If we can, Jemmy," the mother answered gently. "If it succeeds. The more I think of it the more it makes me tremble, Jemmy; but we'll do our best and leave the part we cant't do with the One who can do it."

The gentle voice trembled into silence. Mother could "make poetry,"

too. Jemmy caught off his hat suddenly, and the very act was a little prayer.

"Judy, are you awake?"

Mother stood over the bed in her scant white nightgown. When Judith answered, she sat down beside her and felt for one of her calloused, oar-toughened little hands.

"Judy, would it be--be all right to use some of the mackerel-money?

Mother's got to go away for a little while--just a little while, Judy.

Jemmy says he talked with a man in the city who would give me some work to do in his kitchen for a little while. But--why, I thought I'd take Blossom, Judy, and of course that would mean spending some money--"

"Blossom!"

Judith sat straight up in bed, her eyes like glints of light in the darkness.

"Why, yes, dear; she's never been away from the sea in her little life. You think of that, Judy! You've been away twice. Blossom never saw a steam-car nor a city, nor--nor heard a hand-organ! Jemmy says he heard three to-day. You think how pleased Blossom would be to hear a hand-organ!"

"Sh!" cautioned Judith, "don't wake her, mother. If--she's going, she mustn't know beforehand."

Blossom going away! Not _Blossom!_ Not put one hand out, so, in the dark and feel her there beside you--little warm Blossom! Not dress her in the morning and carry her downstairs--you the chariot and she the fine lady! Not hurry home to her from the traps! Judith lay and thought about all that, after mother went away. She put out her hand on the empty side of the bed, where no Blossom was, and tried to get used to the emptiness. She said stern things to herself.

"You, Judy, are you selfish as _that?_" she said. "To go and begrudge your little Blossom a chance to go away and see things and _hear_ things! Don't you want her to hear a hand-organ? And perhaps see a _monkey?_ When she's never been anywhere, nor heard anything, nor seen anything! When mother's going, anyway, and can take her as well as not--you Judy, you Judy, you Judy! Oh, I cant't sleep with you, I'm so ashamed of you!"

They went at once, and Judith settled down to her loneliness as best she could, and bore it as bravely. They were to be gone a month--perhaps two--perhaps three. A month--two, maybe--three, maybe--without Blossom!

Uncle Jem and Jemmy Three helped out--how much they did help out! Then there were the rare, precious letters. Judith had never had letters from mother before in all her sixteen years. She was rather disappointed that there were no bits of ragged, printed ones from Blossom, but mother's letters had Blossom-bulletins. Blossom sent her love, Blossom had heard two hand-organs--three hand-organs; Blossom said tell Judy she loved her, oh, my! Blossom was very patient and sweet.

"She's always patient and sweet," wondered Judy. Queer mother put that in!

"You little sweet, patient Blossom!" Judith's heart cried tenderly, "when I get you in my arms again--"

Would the time ever come? Why were days made so long? Twenty-four hours were too many--why weren't they made with only twenty?

"Uncle Jem, why don't you tell _me_ how to be sweet and patient?"

Judith said, folding up the Blossom-bulletin she had been reading to him. "Tell me a good receipt."