Judith Lynn Part 1

Judith Lynn.

by Annie Hamilton Donnell.

Chapter I.

In Tarpaulin and oilskins she did not look like a Judith. Easily she might have been a Joseph or a James. So it was not really to be wondered at that the little girl in the dainty clothes--the little girl from The Hotel--should say, "Why!"

"What is your name?" the Dainty One had asked.

"Judith Lynn," had answered the boy-one in oilskins.

"Why!" Then, as if catching herself up at the impoliteness of such a little word in such a surprised tone--"I mean, please excuse me for thinking you were a boy," the little Dainty One had added, in considerable embarra.s.sment. And Judith had laughed--Judith's laughs were rare, but the crisp, salty brightness of the sea was always in them. The sea was in everything about Judith.

"I don't wonder!" laughed Judith. "Me, with these togs on! But I guess _you'd_ be a boy when you went out to your traps--you can't 'tend traps in skirts. Blossom calls me Judas with these on!"

It was strange how suddenly the rather big voice--a voice has to be big to compete with the voice of the sea--grew soft and tender at the name of Blossom.

In Judith Lynn's rough, hard, salt-savored life Blossom was the one thing sweet and beautiful. Blossom was the little frail wisp of a child that Judith loved. This other child, here on the sand, watching her with friendly wonder, reminded her a little of Blossom. Anyway, they were both sweet and beautiful.

"Traps?" queried this other child. "I didn't know there were mice in the ocean!--you were going out on the ocean, weren't you?"

Again Judith's rare, bright laugh. Children were such funny things!--Blossom was, too.

"Lobster-traps," she explained, when the laugh had laughed itself out. "I'm going out to mine to get the lobsters. Out there where those little specks of white are bobbing 'round on the water--don't you see?"

"I see some little specks--yes, they're a-bobbing! Are those _traps?_"

"Mercy, no! The traps are sunk 'way down to the bottom o' the sea!

Those are nothing but the little wooden floats that tell me where the traps are. I couldn't go hunting all over the bay, you know."

"No--oh, no, you couldn't go hunting all over the bay," repeated the small, puzzled voice. The Dainty One was distinctly interested. "I s'pose, prob'ly, every one of those little white specks has got a fish line to it. I hope they've all got _bites_. Oh, my suz! Here comes Elise. Elise is always a-coming!" with a long sigh.

Elise was slender and tall, in cap and ap.r.o.n. She walked with the stride of authority. A frown of displeasure was getting visibler and visibler on her face, the child noticed with another sigh. Elise was 'most always a-frowning.

"Good-by. I--I guess I'd better go and meet her," the Dainty One said hurriedly. "She isn't quite as cross when you go and meet her. It helps."

But the child came back again to Judith Lynn. She held out one little sun-browned, sea-browned hand.

"I'm happy to have seen you," she said, with soft graciousness, as if Judith were a d.u.c.h.ess in laces instead of a boy-girl in fisherman's togs. "I'd be pleased to see you some more. I like you."

"Oh!" stammered the boy-girl in fisherman's togs, a flush of pleasure reddening her brown face. No one had even said "I'd be pleased to see you," to her before, though Blossom, of course, _was_ always pleased.

No one but Blossom had ever said, "I like you," and Blossom's way was, "I love you."

"I must go--she's 'most here," went on the child, rather anxiously.

"But first I wish you'd tell me who Blossom is. You spoke about Blossom, didn't you?"

"Yes. She's my little sister. Her regular name is Janet. It's only me calls her Blossom."

"Oh, but that's lots the prettiest name! _I'm_ going to call her that, too. I'd be pleased to see Blossom. Is she about my tallness?"

Judith's face had undergone one of its swift changes. It had grown defensive and a little fierce. She should not see Blossom!--this other child who could walk away over the sand to meet Elises, whoever Elises were. She should not see Blossom! Blossom should not see her!

"But, maybe--prob'ly she's a baby--"

"No, she's six. She'd be about as tall as you are, if she was straightened--I mean if she could stand up beside o' you. I guess you better go to that woman in the cap or she'll scold, won't she?"

"Goodness, yes! Elise always scolds. But I'd rather be scolded than not hear about that little Blossom girl--"

"Mademoiselle!" called the woman in the cap sharply. She came up puffing with her hurry. "Mademoiselle has escape again--Mademoiselle is ba-ad!" she scolded.

"I didn't ex-scape, either--I only walked. You don't walk when you ex-scape. You sat and sat and sat, and I wanted to walk."

The child's voice was full of grievance. Sometimes she dreaded Elise--when she saw her coming down the beach--but she was never afraid of her "near to."

"But it is not for Mademoiselle to walk so far--what is it the doctor say? Mademoiselle is ba-ad when she walk so far!"

With a sudden gesture of defiance the Dainty One sprang away across the sand, looking over her shoulder willfully. "But it's so good to walk!" she cried. "You'd walk if you was me, Elise--you'd walk and walk and walk! Like this--see me! See me run--like this!"

The eyes of the woman in the white nurse's cap met for an instant the eyes of the boy-girl in the oilskins, and Judith smiled. But Elise was gravely tender--Elise's face could undergo swift changes, too.

"Yes, certainment I would," muttered Elise, looking away to the naughty little figure. It was running back now.

"And then you'd be goody again--see me!" chanted the child. "And you'd go right straight back to Elise--that would be _me_, if you were I--and you'd put your arms round her, so, and say, ''Scuse me,'--hear me!"

Judith Lynn got into the old brown dory and rowed away to her lobster-traps. There was no laughter any more in her eyes; they were fierce with longing and envy. Not for herself--Judith was sixteen, but she had never been fierce or envious for herself. It had always been--it would always be--for Blossom, the frail little wisp of a girl she loved.

She was thinking intensely, What if that were Blossom, running down the beach? They were about of a "tallness"--why shouldn't it be Blossom? Why shouldn't Blossom run down the beach like that and call "See me!"

She would walk and walk and walk--it would feel so good to walk!

Once she had said to Judith--the great oars stopped as Judith remembered--once Blossom had said, "Oh, Judy, if I ever walk, I shall walk right across the sea. You couldn't stop me!"

But Blossom would never walk. Judith bent to the great oars again and toiled out into the bay. Her lips were set in the old familiar lines of pain. In the distance was just visible a fleck of white and a fleck of blue--Elise and the Dainty One on the sands.

"I never want to set eyes on them again--not on her, anyway!" thought Judith as she toiled. "What did she want to speak to me for, in her nice little mincing voice! She belongs to hotels and I belong to the--sea. Blossom and I--what has she got to do with Blossom!"

But the little mincing voice had said, "I'd be pleased to see you--I like you." It had said, "I'd be pleased to see Blossom."

"She sha'n't! I won't have her! I won't have Blossom see her!" Judith stormed in her pain.

The picture of the little frail wisp of a child who would never walk was so distinct to her--and this other picture of the Dainty One who walked and laughed, "See me!" The two little pictures, side by side, were more than Judith could bear.

The traps were nearly empty. It was going to be a poor lobster season. To hotels like that one down the beach that would be a disappointment. To Judith, who stood for fisher-folk, it would mean serious loss. When the lobster season was a good one, more than one little comfort and luxury found its way into more than one humble fisher-home. And Blossom--Blossom would suffer if the lobster-traps were empty. For Judith and her mother had agreed to set apart enough of the lobster-money to get Blossom a wheel-chair. Judith had seen one once on a trip to the nearest town, and ever since she had dreamed about a little wheel-chair with Blossom in it. To wheel up and down the smooth, hard sand, with Blossom laughing and crying, "See me!"

"There's got to be lobsters!" Judith stormed, jerking up her traps one after the other. "There _shall_ be lobsters!"

But she rowed back with the old brown dory almost as empty as when she had rowed it toilsomely out to her traps.