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.
Judy had never been in a city before, and if she had not been so
miserable she would have enjoyed the new experience tremendously. Even
as it was, there was a certain amount of pleasure in going for rides in
the street cars, and in gazing in at the windows of huge stores, such as
she had never even imagined. One of the first things that had been done
was the cropping of her unmanageable curls.
“She’ll never be able to keep all that hair fixed herself!” Mrs. Raymond
had declared. “Besides, such a mop of hair is bad for any growing girl.
Far better have it cut at once!”
So cut it was, and the Judy who now walked demurely along the deck by
Mrs. Corrie’s side had a thick crop of black curls all over her head,
but the long mane was gone. Her little blue velvet tam-o’-shanter,
smartly-cut, shapely shoes and stockings, and new fur-lined gloves were
all of Mrs. Raymond’s choosing; and so was the dainty blue serge frock
with its finishing touches of muslin collar and cuffs and scarlet
stitchery which she wore beneath the coat. In the suitcase marked
“stateroom,” was a smart little navy serge skirt with two middy jumpers,
also a finely embroidered white muslin frock which was for evening wear.
Never in all her life had Judy had so many new things at once. The poor
child was almost overwhelmed, and she could scarcely feel that it was
Judy Carey who was walking along the deck of the liner with the fresh
sea breezes ruffling the curls round her face, and stinging the healthy
colour to her cheeks.
“It’s a beautiful day,” said Mrs. Corrie, who was a talkative soul. “A
perfect day for your first at sea. You’ve seen our stateroom, haven’t
you? Now come and look over the side. We’re making for the Grand Banks,
where such a tremendous lot of the cod fishing goes on. It’s to be hoped
we don’t run into a fog there! They get awful ones sometimes. It tells
you all about it in _Captains Courageous_. You’ve read it, haven’t you?”
Yes, Judy had read it. Denis had sent it to her at Christmas, and she
nearly knew it by heart now.
“Isn’t it a lovely book?” gushed Mrs. Corrie. “But, then, all Kipling
writes is lovely!”
Judy looked at her wonderingly. The expression “lovely” had not struck
her as being particularly applicable to Kipling. Mercifully, her
guardian paid no attention to her, but went on prattling gaily until the
bugle sounded for luncheon.
“Come along,” she said. “I expect you’re hungry, aren’t you, dear?”
“No, thank you; not very,” replied Judy politely.
How could she tell this stranger, kind though she might be, that the
very thought of food was choking her. She clenched her hands fiercely in
her pockets as she meekly followed Mrs. Corrie into their stateroom,
where she submitted to being brushed and turned and twisted as though
she were no older than Honey. As a matter of fact her halo of curls made
her look barely twelve, and Mrs. Corrie was a fussy being who delighted
in attending to her as a little girl delights in attending to her doll’s
wants.
Lunch was, after all, very jolly. She was the youngest of the
first-class passengers, and her big scared eyes and childish appearance
brought her more attention in half an hour than she had hitherto
received in the whole of her life. There were no other children, and
people were rather inclined to make much of her in consequence. The
captain, a good-hearted Scotsman, was especially drawn to the “bit
bairn” as he called her. He had little daughters of his own, and the
voyage was barely a day old before Judy had heard of Jeanie and Elspeth,
who were thirteen and fourteen, and lived in Wallasey, and attended a
big High School in Liverpool.
Mrs. Corrie, seeing that her charge was not likely to get into much
mischief, settled herself comfortably with a chair and rugs, for the
wind had a decided “nip” in it. Towards the evening it began to freshen,
and when dinner-time came Judy found that there were several vacant
places at the table.
“Not necessary to have the fiddles yet,” laughed Mrs. Corrie, as they
took their places, “but I shouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have to
have them before long. You’re sure you feel quite well, Judy?”
“Yes, thank you,” replied Judy, and proceeded to make a meal which was
an excellent proof of her statement. Towards the end, she suddenly
remarked, “I say, why should we have fiddles ’cos it’s rough? Whatever
good can they do?”
Mrs. Corrie laughed amusedly. “I forgot it wasn’t likely you would
understand. They are supports which keep the dishes and plates steady on
the table in bad weather. They use them if there’s a gale blowing.”
“Are we going to have a gale?” queried Judy eagerly.
“Oh, I don’t know. You must ask the captain.”
But the captain was not present at dinner, and Judy had not seen him
when Mrs. Corrie came to tuck her into her berth and kiss her
good-night. The strong sea air had made her drowsy, so that she fell
asleep almost at once, not even waking when the stewardess came and
fixed a kind of movable barrier on the side of the berth.
“That will be all right,” said Mrs. Corrie, who had followed the woman
into the cabin. “Poor little thing! Let’s hope she sleeps through it.
I’ll stay with her in case she wakes up and is frightened.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the stewardess, and then she left the cabin, while
Mrs. Corrie settled herself comfortably with her book, prepared to spend
the next few hours where she was.
Gradually the storm increased in violence, till Judy suddenly awoke with
a cry and sat up.
“Oh, whatever is the matter? What is happening?”
“All right, dear,” said her guardian quickly. “We’re only running into
the tail of a gale. We’ll soon be through it. You aren’t afraid, are
you?”
“Oh no,” replied Judy with truth; for, as a matter of fact, she was more
excited than anything else.
At Mrs. Corrie’s suggestion she lay down again, and watched the walls of
the stateroom slant up—up—up, till it seemed as though the ship must
turn upside down. But just before they reached that point she tilted the
other way, and went down—down—down. Overhead, the wind shrieked like a
thousand furies let loose, while heavy crashes on the deck told of seas
shipped every now and then. From the next-door stateroom Judy could
occasionally hear cries of terror, but she herself was far too thrilled
to be frightened.
“It must be awfully wet for the sailors,” she said once.
“Oh, they’re used to it,” said Mrs. Corrie comfortably. “Besides, we’re
through the worst of it now. We’ll be leaving it behind in a few hours
now. You’re a splendid sailor, Judy! No trouble about your sea-legs!”
“I’ve often wondered if I should be sea-sick,” replied Judy. “I don’t
remember anything about coming from Ireland—I was only a baby, you
see.”
“Well, I’m very glad for your sake you are all right,” said her guardian
heartily. “It would have been so wretched for you if you had been ill.
As it is, you’ll be able to have a good time right through—not like
those poor creatures next door!” she added, as a fresh moaning arose.
“Now, it’s nearly three o’clock, and you ought to be asleep. I’m going
to come to bed—or berth—myself, and we’ll have the light out.”
“I’m sure I shan’t sleep,” said Judy.
“Never mind. You can try,” replied Mrs. Corrie firmly.
Half an hour later the stewardess looked in and found them both fast
asleep. She went back to the next stateroom to her patient there,
thinking that it was as well some of the passengers were good sailors.
Judy slept till nearly two in the afternoon; and by that time the storm
had passed, leaving behind it great grey waves which still swung the
liner up and down in a way that affected several people very badly. By
degrees, however, it calmed down, and when they passed Cape Clear on the
fifth day out all the places at the table were once more occupied.
“You were lucky,” said one young lady enviously to Judy. “I thought I
should die, I felt so ill.”
“I’m sorry,” said Judy simply. “I loved it all.”
“You’re a wonder, then,” laughed her new friend. “I shall tell my young
cousin about you.”
The next day they arrived at Southampton, and Judy stepped off the ship
on to English ground for the first time in her life.
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