"Harry, you see she doesn"t care a thing about going. She"d be better off in bed. Careful, baby! Your hair is catching on my sequins. Put her down, Harry. You"ll spoil the shape of her shoulders some day."
"Don"t you want to go, son?"
"I--" Judith choked, "I----"
"Well, she"s not crazy about it, is she?"
"Then do send her to bed."
"No, you can"t break your promise to a child, Minna."
"Prig," said mother sweetly, as if a prig were a pleasant thing to be.
"All right, let her go, then. Oh, Harry, look at that horse. They"ve sent us the knock-kneed old white corpse again."
Mother hurried him into the carriage, and it clattered out of the yard.
They did not look back. They were always in a hurry, and rather cross when they went to the Everards. For once she was glad to see them go, such a dreadful crisis had come and pa.s.sed. How could father think she did not want to go, father who used to hang May-baskets himself? Norah was calling her, but she did not answer. Norah was cross to-night. She did not know how happy Judith was.
n.o.body knew, but now Judith did not want to tell. She did not want sympathy. She was not lonely. This secret was too important to tell.
And, before her eyes, a lovely and comforting thing was happening, silently and suddenly, as lovely things do happen. Quite still on the steps, a white little figure, alone in a preoccupied world, but calm in spite of it, Judith looked and looked.
Above the horse-chestnut tree, so filmy and faint that the star looked brighter than ever, so pale that it was not akin to the stars or the flickering lights in the street, but to the dark beyond, where adventures were, so friendly and sweet that it could make the wish in your heart come true, whether you were clever enough to wish it out loud or not, hung the wishing moon.
CHAPTER TWO
A small, silent procession was edging its way along Church Street, darkly silhouetted against a faintly starred sky. It was a long hour later now, and looked later still on Church Street. There were few lights left in the string of houses near the white church, at the lower end of the street, and here, at the upper end, there were no lights but the one street lamp near the railroad bridge that arched black overhead, and there were few houses. The street did not look like a street at all, but a country road, and a muddy one.
The narrow board sidewalk creaked, so the procession avoided it, and stuck to the muddy side of the road.
The procession looked mysterious enough, even if you were walking at the tail of it and carrying a heavy market basket; if you had to smell the lantern, swung just in front of you, but did not have the fun of carrying it; if a shaker cloak, hooded and picturesque, in the procession, hampered your activities; if you had questions to ask, and n.o.body answered you.
"Willard."
"Sh!"
One by one, they came into sight, in the wavering light of the street lamp, and melted into the dark under the bridge; Ed, in his white sweater, captaining them, and keenly aware of it; Rena and Natalie, with the larger market basket between them; Willard, bulky in two sweaters, and tenderly shielding his lantern with a third, and Judith. Her face showed pale with excitement against the scarlet of her hood. One hand plucked vainly at Willard"s sleeve; he stalked on, and would not turn.
Only these five, but they had consulted and organized and reorganized for half an hour in the Drews" barn before they started, and had hung only three May-baskets yet. However, the adventure was under way now.
"Willard, now it"s my turn to carry the lantern."
"Judy, you can"t."
"Why?"
"It might explode." The feeble flame gave one dispirited upward spurt at this encouragement, causing excitement in front.
"Oh, Ed!"
"Ed, make him put it out."
"Rena and Nat, you keep still. Judy"s not scared, are you Judy?"
"No! Oh, no!"
"The lantern"s a sick looking sight, and he can carry it if he wants to, but we don"t need it."
"I like that. You tried to get me to let you carry it, Ed."
"Don"t talk so much."
"Who started the talk?"
"Well, who"s running this, anyway--you, Willard Nash?"
"There"s a dog in that house."
"Sh!"
"But that dog"s only a c.o.c.ker spaniel. He can"t hurt you."
"Judy, sh!"
Sh! Somebody was always saying that. It was part of the ceremony, which had been the same all three times. The procession was halting opposite the Nealy house. A whispered quarrel started every time they approached a house, and was hushed halfway through and not taken up again. The quarrel and the hush were part of the ceremony, too.
The Nealy house was small and harmless looking, and entirely dark, but they did not allow that to make them reckless. They stood looking warily across the dark street.
"But there"s n.o.body there. Maggie Nealy"s out, too, to-night, and her mother----"
"Sh!" Willard put a hand over Judith"s mouth. It smelled of kerosene, and she struggled, but did not make a noise. Just at this dramatic moment the Nealy"s dog barked.
Judith could hear her heart beat and feel her damp feet getting really wet and cold.
"Now," Ed whispered, close to her ear and uncomfortably loud, and she fumbled in her basket. Willard jiggled the lantern dizzily over her shoulder, tissue paper tore under her fingers, and bonbons rattled.
Hanging May-baskets was certainly hard on the May-baskets, and they were so pretty; pale coloured, like flowers.
"I can"t find the right one. The marks are all falling off. The candy"s falling out."
"We can"t stand here all night. Here----"
"Willard, take your hands out. Not that one----"
"Willard and Judy stop fighting. That one will do. I"m going."
There was dead silence now, and Ed, clutching the wreck of a sizable crepe-paper creation to the bosom of his white sweater, doubled into a crouching, boy scout att.i.tude, crossed the road, and approached the house. Nothing but his own commendable caution delayed his approach. The small dog"s dreams within were untroubled now. There were no signs of life.