Part 14 (1/2)
But Judith's heart was sore, and a teasing remark of Sally May's as they were dressing for the dinner entirely spoilt the evening for her. Sally May came in to ask Judith to help her with a difficult fastener, and she surveyed Judith's reflection in the mirror while Judith snapped the refractory dome.
”You look stunning, Judy; I'm sure that if Tim could see you he would return the compliment and say that you looked 'just lovely,'” she added wickedly.
The colour flowed over Judith's face and then receded leaving her quite white. So Nancy had told Sally May about her foolish speech in the Christmas holidays! How horrid of her! How mean! Judith had almost forgotten about Tim by this time, but her love for Nancy had steadily grown, and Nancy had been making fun of her behind her back! Judith gave herself up to angry thoughts; almost she hated Nancy; she wanted to go away, to be alone, to hide some place; and instead she must go to this miserable dinner and perhaps sit just across the table from Nancy. The thought of Nancy's disloyalty hurt; it hurt horribly.
Judith finished dressing, put on her wraps, and went down to the sitting-room to wait for the others. To her disgust she found Georgia Fiske there, Georgia whom she positively disliked for no reason at all and who looked up at her now with a beaming smile.
”I was just thinking about you, Judy,” she said, ”and wondering if you had a partner. Do sit beside me. I'd have asked you before, but I didn't know you were going till just a few minutes ago.”
Poor Judith!--there was apparently no escape; she must sit beside Georgia, and listen to her silly remarks. Judith was in no mood to be fair to any one; she hated Georgia, she hated Sally May, she hated Nancy.
The dinner-party was a failure as far as Judith was concerned. Miss Meredith, stately and dignified in black velvet and beautiful old lace, was a charming hostess, and the girls were soon talking naturally and easily. Judith looked down the table at Nancy; she didn't want to look at her and yet she must. Nancy, radiating friendliness and good-humor, smiled at Judith as much as to say, ”Isn't it jolly?” But Judith hardened her heart and pretended that she didn't see her. The ice-cream was delicious and the tiny cups of black coffee afterwards made them feel very grown-up, and every one but Judith seemed perfectly happy.
”What's the matter, Judy?” whispered Nancy, as they went into the drawing-room, for Judith not only felt miserable, she looked miserable--so much so that Miss Meredith made a mental note to ask Miss Marlowe to keep an eye on her and find out if anything were troubling her.
”Nothing's the matter,” said Judith coldly, turning away and calling out to Frances to wait for her.
Nancy felt rebuffed, but loyally sought to find excuses for her friend.
”She's been working too hard over that Jessica essay,” she said to herself; ”she looks awfully tired.”
Then followed a miserable week. Judith was both jealous and angry; she felt that in telling Sally May what she had said about Tim, Nancy had betrayed their friends.h.i.+p. It was true that Nancy and Sally May were much together; they were making scenery for the Studio Play and were spending many spare hours upstairs working under Miss Ashwell's direction. Judith knew about the play, but she was too angry to be reasonable, so she shut herself up in her books and avoided Nancy as much as possible.
Nancy knew quite well now that something had come between Judith and her, and she made two more attempts to find out what was wrong so that if possible things might be righted, but each time Judith rebuffed her, and Nancy was too busy to spend much time coaxing. Sally May, who was held to be a wise little person, told Nancy not to worry.
”Judy'll be all right; she is just cross and tired. I really can't see why she works so hard.”
Sally May, it may be remarked, would never work very hard as long as she lived: she wasn't that kind.
”Did you hear Judith give Jane what-for the other day?” she continued.
”Jane went into Judy's cubicle with an orange peel and an old piece of rubber cut in the shape of a heart, and called out, 'What price for these personal relics of our beloved Captain Catherine? Her pretty foot has pressed this piece of rubber; it can be conveniently sewed to the camisole and worn next the heart. Her pretty lips once touched this piece of peel'--and she dangled the peel right in front of Judy's eyes.
'Get out of my room quick,' said our polite little Judy, 'and take your garbage with you!' Jane said it gave her a nasty turn. It's my belief that Judy wants to come first in history or something, and she wants to be left alone to study.”
Nancy was only half-convinced, but the easiest thing was to accept Sally May's explanation. Nancy had many friends and she was able to love them all. She found it hard to understand Judith's exclusive att.i.tude. Judith wanted but one friend at a time; she might admire Josephine and Sally May and enjoy Jane's pertness and Joyce's cleverness and adore Catherine's beauty, but Nancy was her friend, her pal, and she wanted Nancy to feel the same about her. But Nancy was differently made, and although Judith had come to be perhaps her best friend in the school, she was able to feel genuine affection for many other girls and would have been incapable of Judith's pa.s.sionate jealousy because of her affection for some one else.
Meanwhile Judith's hurt decreased not at all. It may take a poet to sing adequately of ”the wounds by friends.h.i.+p made,” but a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, if she be blessed or cursed by her fairy G.o.dmothers with a sensitive soul, can feel those wounds and feel them bitterly.
The after-dinner half-hour of rest had been a time when the crew of the ”Jolly Susan” had shut their door on the outside world and had taken their ease. Visiting without permission at this hour was not usually allowed, but Catherine was often quite willing that Judith and Nancy should be in each other's rooms, for they could talk quite quietly and made no disturbance. Now Judith could hear Nancy in Sally's room, and this was more than she could bear. Instead of coming up to her room directly after lunch, she asked to have a practising period put on her time-table from two to two-thirty, and the odd fifteen minutes before the two o'clock bell rang, which was legitimate time for visiting, she was spending in other girls' rooms; in fact Judith was beginning to find out that there were other interesting and lovable girls in the school besides those select few in the ”Jolly Susan.”
There was Rosamond, for instance, whom Judith had at first regarded with mild contempt because she was greedy, but Rosamond, she found out, was aware of her besetting sin and this Lenten season was disciplining herself strictly, and no one could be more sympathetic if one were in trouble than the same Rosamond; and there was Joyce Hewson whom Judith had thought proud, but who seemed unapproachable because she was really shy and very conscious of her unusual height; and then there was Florence Newman who had seemed at the beginning of the term so unresponsive and dull. Florence and Josephine had become friends, drawn together by love for their far-away Western homes, and dropping into Florence's room one day with Josephine, Judith had been entranced by the tales of mountain climbing and hunting which Florence had to tell.
Florence had scarcely seen a girl of her own age until she dropped suddenly into the hurly-burly of York Hill, and it was no wonder that a painful shyness had made her seem ungracious and almost rude. She simply hadn't known how to meet the advances of these kind, jolly girls.
And then there was Miss Ashwell. Miss Ashwell had slipped on the ice a couple of months before and had sprained her ankle so badly that, although she was able now to get up and down to the studio, she walked slowly and with a cane. Judith got into the way of knocking at Miss Ashwell's door after lunch to see if she could do any errand for her.
Sometimes she carried her books up to the studio, or ran downstairs to see if there were any word of the model who was to come for the two-thirty cla.s.s, and sometimes she went in and sat in Miss Ashwell's comfortable chair and felt rested and happy, for Miss Ashwell seemed to possess some curious secret of healing.
Judith was a beauty-lover, and if any one had asked her why she liked Miss Ashwell, she would probably have replied promptly, ”Because she is so pretty.” Miss Ashwell _was_ pretty, with her clear blue eyes, gold-brown hair, and a skin so fair and soft, that it made one think of apple-blossoms; and she had charm, that indefinable something, which like a magnet drew others to her.
The week after the miserable dinner-party was rainy and cold, and something of the grey dulness out-of-doors seemed to have penetrated within. For Judith, at least, the mornings dragged heavily; everything seemed to have lost its flavour. At recess she would look over at Nancy, who seemed to be having a jolly time with Sally May and Joyce, and want to join them and laugh, too. There wasn't any reason in the world why she shouldn't do so except the nasty little spirit which had taken possession of her. But she hardened her heart--and was quite miserable in consequence.
Towards the end of the week, one day after lunch she stood hesitating for a moment at the head of the stairs. Should she go down to the ”Jolly Susan,” or visit with Florence or Miss Ashwell. The thought of Miss Ashwell was comforting, her room was the ”homiest” place Judith knew, so she tapped at the door of the pleasant little brown room at the end of the corridor.