Judy the Guide, page 1
Judy the Guide
by Elinor M. Brent-Dyer
First published in 1928
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Judy The Guide
by Elinor M. Brent-Dyer
To
MOLLIE COOMBS
(Folk Dancer)
This, as a small return for all she has given me in enjoyment and the Folk spirit
CHAPTER I
MR. BOLLAND’S PROPOSAL
“Judy! Judy! Where are you? Your godfather is come, and mother wants you indoors at once! Are you here, Judy? Do hurry up!” And Mollie Carey nearly danced in her frantic excitement.
“There’s no need to hurry, that I can see,” replied a voice from the loft beneath which she was standing. “He won’t run away for a while yet.”
As these last words were spoken, a pair of long brown legs appeared through the opening, followed by a very dilapidated blue cotton frock and an untidy black head. A moment later, and Judy had slid down the ladder, and was standing beside her sister.
A greater contrast than the two could hardly have been imagined. Mollie was a small, slender girl of sixteen, with golden hair curling round a face as sweet and fresh as a pink rosebud. With such hair and colouring one might have expected blue eyes. But the long black lashes curled up to show dark grey ones—the true Irish eyes, “put in with a smutty finger.” She had dimples in her cheeks, and one in her chin. Her dress, like Judy’s, was of faded blue cotton; but it was daintily put on. Her curls were well brushed, and tied back with a much-ironed piece of black ribbon; and though she wore the thick woollen stockings and stoutly-made shoes of the prairie child, the whole effect was charming and trim.
Judy, on the other hand, looked rather as though she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. She was a thin slip of a girl, all arms and legs, with a mane of wild elf locks that never looked tidy. She was burnt a deep brown with the sun, and her frocks were always getting too short, for Judy had lately taken to growing at a tremendous rate. Yet a close observer would have noticed that though her face with its tilted chin was thin, with hollow cheeks, yet the drawing of it was admirable; the wide mouth had finely-cut lips; and the deep grey eyes, at present almost too large, were lovely as Mollie’s. There were possibilities in Judy of loveliness later on, though at present she was as plain as she well could be.
“How tidy you are, Mollie,” she said as she reached her sister. “It’s a good thing one of us looks decent! Guess you’ll have to dress for us both!”
“Flum-diddle!” retorted Mollie. “Come on, and let me fix your hair. Your shoes and stockings are in our bed-chamber too.”
“Guess I shan’t bother,” replied Judy. “God-papa can just see me as I am. There’s no reason for dressing up to please him, is there?”
“Judy, you just can’t go and see him like that!”
“Why not? What’s the matter with me?” demanded Judy “I’m clean, amn’t I?”
“Yes; fairly clean. But oh, Judy, your hair’s all on end, and you’re barefoot, and the hem of your frock’s coming down! Do come and put on your pink one,” coaxed Mollie. “It’s all fresh—I ironed it yesterday.”
Judy heaved a deep sigh. “I s’pose I’ll have to,” she said; “but I do hate shoes and stockings, Moll.”
“Poor old Judy, I guess you do. Here, slip in quietly so that they don’t hear us.”
The two girls mounted the carpetless wooden stairs, and entered a long, narrow room which, while it was as clean as hands and soap and water could make it, had very few of the daintinesses to be seen in an English girl’s bedroom. A big black iron bedstead nearly filled up one end of the room. At the other, stood a chest of drawers with a mirror hanging over it, and an enamelled bowl and jug standing on it. A rickety table by the window held a jam jar in which some one had placed a handful of prairie grasses. The same hand had neatly hemmed the pieces of gaily coloured chintz which covered the table and the top of the drawers, and hung at the long, narrow window. There were a couple of broken-down wicker chairs; and facing the bedstead was a set of shelves, literally crammed with books of all kinds and in all conditions. One picture, a faded copy of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s “Cherub Choir,” hung over the bed.
When the sisters entered the room, Mollie made a dive for the bottom drawer, from which she took a much-washed pink gingham frock, while Judy wriggled out of the forlorn blue garment and washed her hands and face.
“Let me brush your hair straight,” pleaded the elder girl; “and I guess I’ve got a ribbon to fix it. I’ll just braid it to your shoulders—so—and then tie it. There, that’s a mite better. Now the frock, Judy. Here are your shoes and stockings, and I’ll lend you my black belt. That’s a lot nicer, isn’t it, little old Ju?”
Judy cast an indifferent glance at her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “I do hate shoes and stockings, Moll. Let’s hope they don’t keep us long, and then I can change again. I’ve got a glorious book in the loft—Sadie Wilson loaned to me The Last Days of Pompeii—and I want to get on with it. You’d love it, Moll. You could get heaps of pictures from it.”
“Mollie! Judy!” a voice called up the stairs. “Aren’t you coming down at all?”
“There’s mother calling,” said Mollie. “Come on, Judy.”
Together they came down the stairs and into the big living-room, where Mrs. Carey, an older and faded edition of lovely Mollie, sat talking to a tall, grey man who rose as the girls came in, eyeing them keenly.
“This is Judy,” said her mother as the girl came over to her. “You haven’t seen her since she was three, I think. Judy, this is your godfather.”
Judy lifted big scared eyes to her godfather’s face as she reluctantly took the slender hand he held out to her.
“How do you do, Judith?” he said in clear, beautifully-modulated tones. “You have grown very much since I saw you last. How old are you, child?”
“I am fourteen,” replied Judy. “I was fourteen three weeks ago.”
“Fourteen? Dear me!” he said. “Quite a big girl! I had forgotten you were as old! Well, and how do you spend your days?”
“It’s vacation,” said Judy shyly, as she twisted her fingers together. “I ride on Puck, my pony, and help at milking time, and read.”
“So you like reading? What books do you like?”
“Judy likes most anything with a tale to it,” put in Mollie, seeing that her sister was shy. “She reads more than any of us—except Denis.”
“Denis? That is the boy at Oxford, is it not?” asked Mr. Bolland of Mrs. Carey.
“Yes,” she said. “He won the James Murchison Scholarship, and went over last Fall. His first year is nearly ended now. I’m afraid he and Judy are the only ones who care for study,” she went on. “Mollie is happiest doing housework, and Terry and Honey hate anything to do with books.”
“I see,” the guest nodded. “Well, god-daughter, I have brought you a gift of some books. I didn’t know what you would like, so I just told the girl in the store to pick me half a dozen good ones for a schoolgirl. They’re in my grip outside at this moment.”
Half a dozen new books! The slow colour flooded Judy’s face, and her eyes shone like stars.
“O-o-oh!” she breathed, clasping her hands tightly together. “O-o-oh! godpapa! How kind of you!”
Mr. Bolland looked pleased at her evident delight. “Let’s get ’em,” he said, rising. “I guess you’ll want to begin on ’em straight away, don’t you? I brought a few things for the others,” he went on, turning to Mrs. Carey. “There’s a doll for the little girl, and some paints for the boy, and a work-basket for Mollie. I got my sister who lives with me in Toronto to pick those for me.”
“It is very good of you,” replied Mrs. Carey. “They will be delighted.”
By this time he had brought his bag into the room, and was opening it and producing the precious parcels. A thin, flat one and a long, narrow one were put on one side; they were the paint-box and the doll. Then came a square one for Mollie, and after that, one which held the precious books. Judy could scarcely find words with which to thank him as she took them. In the Carey household there were never any spare pennies for books. The farm barely made a living for them all, and they had to do without any luxuries. What books they did own had been brought from England thirteen years before, when Mr. and Mrs. Carey had come to the golden land of Canada with their three children, Denis, Mollie, and Judy, then a baby of eleven months old, hoping to fare better than they had fared in old Ireland. But the War had come, and Mr. Carey had gone with other Canadians to fight for the Motherland; and then things hadn’t gone very well since the War, and so they all went without everything but necessities. It had been a great joy to the family when Denis had won his scholarship, but it had meant plainer living than ever for the others to make it possible for him to use it. Mollie and the little ones had not troubled much, but to book-loving Judy it had been positive anguish to have only the old friends to fall back on. She could scarcely find words to thank her godfather as she opened that delightful parcel.
There were two schoo
Mr. Bolland watched their joy, well pleased. Then he turned to Mrs. Carey. “Can’t we leave them now, and go somewhere else to discuss what I wrote you about in my last letter?” he suggested. “Can’t we go and find Mr. Carey?”
“Why, certainly,” replied his hostess. “He will be in the stockyard, I guess. Shall we go?”
For reply he held open the door for her, and they passed out, leaving the two girls alone. There was silence in the room after they had left, for Judy was fathoms deep in Rob Roy, and Mollie was fingering the little scissors, thimble, bodkin, tape-measure, and other dainty appointments of her new treasure. Presently, however, she raised her head.
“Judy,” she said; but no answer came. Judy was lost to the world.
Mollie got up from her chair, and came over to her and shook her.
“Well, what do you want?” demanded the younger girl, looking up from her book impatiently.
“Judy, what do you think Mr. Bolland can want to discuss with father and mother?” asked Mollie, a little anxiously.
“I don’t know. Something about the ranch, maybe!” and Judy’s dark head went down over her book again.
Mollie left it at that; but something told her that Mr. Bolland’s business had little to do with the ranch. It was something that affected her far more closely than that. The chiming of the clock reminded her that it was time to get supper ready, since it was nearing sundown. Without disturbing her sister, she proceeded to lay the table, and prepare the corned beef and canned peaches, and to make a Johnny-cake. The sound of voices drawing near just as she had finished everything warned her that her father and mother and their guest were close at hand, so she made the strong tea without which the meal would not have been complete, and then went out to call the two little ones.
They came running to her: Terry, a handsome little lad of seven, and five-year-old Honor—or Honey, as she was more often called—golden haired, blue eyed, and rosy cheeked. Molly had just time to send them to wash their hands and faces and extract a promise from Honey that she would change her frock, and then the grown-ups were in the living-room, and her father was demanding supper.
Presently they all sat down. Terry and Honey, shy as young fawns in the presence of a stranger, scarcely spoke. These prairie children rarely saw a fresh face. They were thirty-six miles from the nearest railway; six miles from the little village where stood the school they attended in the winter months, going there on horseback as long as they could, and then driving in the sleigh when the snow came. This man from Toronto was something quite new in their experience. Mr. Bolland, who knew little about children, scarcely spoke to them after he had presented them with their parcels; but during the meal Mollie noted that he kept looking at Judy with deep interest. Her mother seemed rather paler than usual, she thought, and her father’s jokes were obviously forced.
It was not, however, till after the supper things were cleared away, and the little ones had gone outside for a last game before bed-time, that the reason of all this was told them. Then Mr. Carey called Judy to him.
“Judy, come here,” he said.
Judy came at once and stood beside him, scanning his face with bright, interested eyes.
“Judy,” he said quietly, “how would you like to go to school in England?”
Go to school in England! Judy’s face flushed and her eyes were dark with excitement, but she said nothing.
“How would you like it?” repeated her father slowly; “because your godfather is very anxious to send you, and your mother and I have agreed to let you go.”
CHAPTER II
JUDY SETS SAIL
It was early September, and already there was a sharp tang in the air. A fresh wind blew in from the sea, bringing with it the promise of a glorious day. The quay was crowded with people who had come to say good-bye to those going to Old England. On the boat there were more people. Some were chattering gaily; others stood almost silent; others, again, clung together, crying bitterly. Of these groups one was particularly noticeable. It consisted of four people—a man, obviously “city,” who looked supremely uncomfortable; another, tall and bronzed, clad in loosely-fitting grey flannels, and with eyes which looked as though they were accustomed to gazing across long distances; a pretty fair-haired girl, who wept bitterly most of the time; and a slighter, younger one, with short, curly hair and white set face. It was plain that this last was the traveller. Her attaché case, steamer rug, and long blue coat with tammy to match were signs of that. She stood, patiently enduring the tearfully affectionate hugs of the other girl, and speaking seldom.
“You will write often, Judy, won’t you?” gulped Mollie, for it was the day of Judy’s sailing for that new, strange life in England, and she was being seen off by her father, Mollie, and her godfather. “Oh, you will write every week?”
“Yes, I’ll write,” replied Judy.
“Be a good colleen,” said her father. “Don’t forget, acushla, ’tis a grand chance you are having.”
“You’ll remember to give Denis our love,” went on Mollie with a hiccup. “Oh, Judy, what are we going to do without you?”
Before any more could be said a bell sounded loudly.
“That’s a warning to us to clear,” said Mr. Bolland. “Good-bye, Judy. Remember, you’ve no need to go short of anything. My sister will meet you at Southampton, and she’ll see to your school uniform and so on. I’ve told you about your pocket-money; but remember, if you want anything extra, you are to have it. Just let me know.”
“Yes, thank you, godpapa,” replied Judy. “It’s—you’re very kind. I’ll do my best to work hard and do well. Good-bye!”
Now Mollie took possession of her. “G-g-good-bye, J-Judy d-dear,” she sobbed. “Do-on’t forget us! And d-do write!”
“Good-bye, Mollie,” replied Judy. “I’ll never forget you, and I’ll write every week. I promise it on my honour.”
Then it was her father’s turn. Gathering her into his arms, “Good-bye, Judy girl,” he murmured. “Be happy over there—that’s all we want.”
Then indeed Judy broke down.
“Daddy—Daddy!” she sobbed, clinging to him with an almost desperate grip. “Oh, Daddy!”
But just then the siren gave the final warning, and he was forced to tear himself away and follow Mr. Bolland, who was leading the sobbing Mollie down the gangway. On the quay they all three stood and watched the hawsers cast off. There was a throb and a stir throughout the great liner, almost as though she were giving herself a shake, and then she began, very slowly, to glide away to the harbour mouth. At once a great gust of melody rose as those left behind joined in singing “Auld Lang Syne.” Gradually the boat quickened her speed, and the sound was carried away by the wind till it died. Judy Carey stood by the ship side, staring at the land till finally it too faded away, and there was nothing left but sea and sky—or so it seemed to her.
Presently she felt a touch on her arm, and turning round she saw the lady who had agreed to take charge of her during the passage.
“Yes?” she said. “Do you want me for anything?”
“Don’t you think it would be nice to come and see where the deck-steward has put our chairs?” said her guardian persuasively. “The bugle will be going for luncheon presently, and you might like to look round a bit first.”
“Thank you,” said Judy listlessly. “You’re very kind.”
She obediently turned, and walked down the deck by her companion’s side.
Mrs. Corrie looked at her charge with approval. Great changes had taken place in Judy since that summer evening at the end of June when her father had told her that she was to go to school in England. At first she had refused to believe it; and when at length they had succeeded in getting her to grasp the fact she had cried stormily. However, her parents had made up their minds that this offer of a first-rate education in England for Judy was too good to be refused, so all her tears and pleading availed her nothing. When finally she realized that go to England she must, she stopped crying, and accepted what lay before her in almost sullen silence. Mrs. Carey and Mollie had settled down to making her dainty underlinen, resolved that she should go as well provided as possible; but Judy herself could only roam about the farm, or go off for long wild gallops on Puck, her prairie pony. Then, when August was three weeks old, the big old-fashioned wooden box was packed, and Mr. Carey and Mollie took her to Toronto, where they were met by Mr. Bolland and the married sister who lived with him.
