Books: Half a Dozen Girls
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Anna Chapin Ray >> Half a Dozen Girls
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"Can Dr. Adams come right away? Alan is terribly ill."
Yes, he was ill, and perhaps he was going to die, and she had done
it! Polly fled desperately back to bed and, pulling the blankets
tightly over her head to smother the sound, she burst out crying
as she had never before cried, in her life, crying with shame for
herself and sorrow for her boy friend.
As soon as her first outburst was over, she raised herself on her
elbow and strained her ears to listen for the sound of her
father's return, convinced that he must and would bring good news.
It was nothing serious, she reasoned, they were unnecessarily
alarmed, for it would be too unjust for Alan to be ill, when she
alone had been the one to blame.
It was long that her father was gone. A dozen times Polly had been
sure that she heard his steps, but the moments dragged on and on,
without bringing him. At length the door opened and he entered.
Polly was out of bed in an instant and crouching at the head of
the stairs, shivering with cold and fear, while she waited to hear
his first words to her mother. She thought he would never get his
coat off and go into the parlor. When he did, she heard something
that seemed to stop her breath.
"I've only just pulled Alan through, to-night," the doctor was
saying to his wife. "When I went in, I thought there wasn't much
chance for him; but the worst is over, for the present."
"What was it?" asked his wife anxiously.
"Acute pneumonia, as much as anything," answered the doctor; "but
it's mixed up with his rheumatism till he's a poor, forlorn little
bundle of aches and pains. They sent for me just in time, too. If
they'd waited till morning, we should have lost our Alan."
"What brought it on?" asked Mrs. Adams, and her voice was a little
unsteady as she spoke.
"That is the strangest part of it," replied her husband. "He came
in this noon, dripping wet, and Mrs. Hapgood hasn't been able to
make him tell what had happened."
"Oh, mamma!"
The doctor and his wife both started up, at the sound of the
strange, stifled voice. In the door directly behind them stood
Polly, barefooted and with her teeth chattering violently, while
her face was so swollen with tears as to be almost unrecogizable.
"Polly!"
Mrs. Adams sprang towards her, but Polly waved her off.
"Don't touch me, mamma! Don't kiss me, till you know all about it,
what I've done! I'm to blame about Alan."
Without speaking Mrs. Adams caught up the afghan from the sofa and
wrapped it closely about her daughter. Then, leading her to the
bright wood fire, she sat down before it and took Polly into her
lap, as if she had been a little child. The gentleness of her
manner, the unspoken sympathy for some trouble which she did not
yet know, had started Polly's tears to flowing again, and for a
long time she could only cling to her mother and sob, with her
head against the soft, warm cheek and a loving arm about her
shoulders.
For some moments, the quiet of the room was only broken by the
measured ticking of the clock on the mantel and the snapping of
the fire on the andirons. At length Mrs. Adams said gently,--
"Now, Polly, tell me all about it."
And Polly told, sparing herself in no way, but giving all the
details with a merciless truthfulness, and ending, with a sob,--
"And after all that, mamma, he tried to help me up when I fell,
and I drove him off, and now--Oh, what shall I do! Scold me, if
you want to; you ought to! I tried to tell you before, but I
couldn't."
Mrs. Adams's arms grew tighter about her daughter, while she said
gravely, very gravely,--
"Polly, dear, I am much too sorry for you, to scold you."
As she spoke, the doctor rose quietly and left the room, for he
felt that what would follow was for mother and daughter alone, and
even he had no right to sit by and listen to their words.
"I am sorry for you, dear," her mother went on, after a moment;
"not so much for what you are suffering now, as I am because,
little by little, you have let your temper get the better of you
until to-day, for just this trifle, you have forgotten yourself
entirely. The pain you have borne tonight on Alan's account is
only a blessing to you, the natural punishment for what you have
done, and it will help you to remember this another time, when you
are angry. Each one of these fits of temper leaves a scar, Polly,
that nothing can ever entirely heal; and I want no such scars on
my Polly's womanhood, which must be above reproach. You are very
dear to me, my daughter, and my whole life is bound up in my hopes
for your future."
"Oh, how can I remember!" sobbed Polly. "It is all over, so in a
minute, and then I just hate myself, but it doesn't do the least
bit of good."
"It can't be done in a day, Polly; it will take years and years;
perhaps it may be the work of a whole lifetime. But if, by
watching yourself and struggling to keep back the quick words that
come to you, after long years you could cure this temper, wouldn't
the 'well done' be yours just as truly as if, for instance, you
went on some mission abroad? It is often far more to rule
yourself, than it is to spend your life working among the poor and
wicked, and takes more courage and selfdenial. That may be the
work which is laid out for my little daughter, and I pray that she
may do it bravely and well, so that in time I may be as proud and
happy in my Polly as I now am fond of her."
As her mother spoke, she rested her face against Polly's curls,
and one bright tear sparkled among the soft little rings. Then she
resumed,--
"And now, about Alan. I shall not scold you, Polly, for your
punishment has come, as it always does, and is hard enough to
bear, without my adding a word. But the danger was great, and you
have only just escaped the most terrible sorrow that can ever come
to any human being. Still, Alan is very ill, and may be for a
long, long time to come. Anything that you can do, to make up to
him for this, must be at once your duty and your pleasure, and I
know that you will feel it to be so."
The talk lasted for a long time, until the fire burned out into
cold, white ashes, and Polly shivered in her mother's arms. When
she went up-stairs again, Mrs. Adams went with her, and always
after the last quiet words in the dark, silent room, Polly felt a
new reverence for her mother which never left her in the future
years.
Polly went down-stairs to breakfast, the next morning, filled with
gloomy forebodings, for she feared Aunt Jane's sharp glances and
sharper words. But the doctor had had a plain, decided talk with
Miss Roberts, the evening before, and had forbidden her to allude
to Polly's trouble, so for once Aunt Jane held her peace. Soon
after they left the table, Polly appeared before her mother, with
her coat and cap on.
"I'm going, mamma!"
"Where?" inquired Mrs. Adams, in some surprise.
"To Mrs. Hapgood's," answered Polly, nerving herself to speak
steadily. "I think I ought to tell her what I did to Alan, for
he's keeping it a secret to save me, and she ought to know.
Besides, I must hear how he is."
Mrs. Adams made no attempt to dissuade her, and Polly went down
the street, walking more and more slowly as she neared the house,
for she felt her courage fast leaving her. At the gate she paused
to glance up at the window of Alan's room. The shades were drawn
down, and no familiar boy face appeared there, to give her a
welcome. How she dreaded to go in! The cold, raw wind swept past
her, as she stood there, and it seemed to Polly that the day was
strangely in harmony with her life, just then, for the warm,
bright air of the morning before had given place to dull, heavy
clouds which lay in long, low banners along the mountain side. As
she looked up at the window above, she felt a strong, unreasoning
desire to turn again and run away towards home; but just then the
side door below opened softly, and Mrs. Hapgood stepped out on the
piazza.
"Come in, my dear," she said. "I have good news for you; Alan had
a fairly comfortable night, and now he is asleep."
"Oh, Mrs. Hapgood!" And Polly told her the story in an excited,
breathless fashion, with the same unhesitating truth she had shown
in talking to her mother.
If Mrs. Adams had been kind, so was Mrs. Hapgood, as well. She
spoke no word of blame, but gathered the forlorn little figure
into her arms, and soothed and comforted the child with assurances
of her forgiveness and Alan's, too.
"Now, Polly," she said, as she rose, "I must go back up-stairs to
my boy again. And if I were in your place, I would let this matter
rest a secret between ourselves, your parents and Alan. I promise
you that Molly and the other girls shall never know. But I am glad
that you felt you could come and tell me about it. We will hope we
can have Alan down-stairs before many days, and then you must run
in to see him."
Two days later, a note came for Polly, just as she was starting
for school.
"Alan wants to see you," it said; "come in for a few minutes."
Polly needed no second bidding, but hurried away, glad at the
thought of seeing her friend once more. Mrs. Hapgood saw her
coming and met her at the door, to lead her up-stairs to Alan's
room. The boy was propped up with pillows, and his face looked
rather white and worn, but it lighted as Polly entered, and he
stretched out his hand to her eagerly.
"Hullo, Poll!" he exclaimed. "I'm no end glad to see you."
Mrs. Hapgood had left them alone together, but Polly did not stop
to notice that, as she darted impulsively to the bed, saying,--
"Oh, Alan!"
Alan understood, but, being a boy, he only squeezed her hand
between his, as he said lightly,--
"Bother all that stuff, Polly! Molly was mean to tell, and I was
meaner to laugh at you, so I deserved to have my face washed. I
sent for you because I knew you'd hear I was sick and worry about
it. I didn't mean anybody to know, though."
When Mrs. Hapgood came back again, after a few moments, she found
Polly sitting beside the bed, with a happier face than she had
worn since the memorable Monday noon, while Alan looked as
blissful as she; and when Polly took her departure, a little
later, the boy called after her,--
"Come again as soon as you can, Poll. You're a jolly little nurse,
and I like to have you round."
CHAPTER XV.
THE PLAY.
It was the last week in March, and the time had finally come for
giving the long-discussed play, which had been delayed for some
weeks on account of Alan's illness. After the first acute attack
had passed, there followed, as a result of his drenching, a slow,
tedious form of rheumatism which kept him shut up in the house,
where he was forced to amuse himself as best he might. His sister
and cousins did what they could to make the time pass quickly and
pleasantly; but between school and their cooking club and their
frequent calls on Bridget, they had little time for the boy except
during the evenings, and he was mainly left to the society of his
mother. This had been the state of affairs for more than a week,
and Alan was becoming somewhat restless. He was not a saint, but
only one of the next best things, a bright, lovable boy; and
having rather exhausted his resources of reading, playing
solitaire, and talking to his mother, the evening usually found
him decidedly cross after his dull day, and he only half responded
to the girls' attempts to be entertaining.
"I don't see what's come over Alan," said Molly, one afternoon, as
the girls were walking home from school together. "Pie's always
been so jolly, and now he's cross as can be. He doesn't act as if
he wanted to have anything to say to us, and goes off to bed as
soon as he can, after supper. I told him last night I thought he'd
better be ashamed of himself."
As Molly spoke, they were just passing the Hapgood house. Polly
glanced up at Alan's window, in the wing, to see the back of a
yellow head, inside the glass. Molly followed the direction of her
eyes, and said, by way of explanation,--
"Alan's not down-stairs to-day. He said he didn't feel like it."
"He isn't?"
Polly paused irresolutely at the gate, then turned in.
"What are you going to do, Polly?" asked Florence.
"I'm going up to see Alan," responded Polly.
"But I thought we were all going down to see Bridget."
"Bother Bridget!" returned Polly, with some energy. "The rest of
you can go all the time, if you want to; but it's my impression
that charity begins at home. Here we've all of us had that
everlasting old Bridget on the brain, and let Alan get along as
best he can."
"But Alan has mamma, and Bridget hasn't anybody but us," said
Molly, in a virtuous tone of self-denial.
"I don't care if she hasn't," retorted Polly vehemently; "she has
five of you to coddle her, and you just go there because you like
the fun and think it sounds goody. There are enough of you without
me, and one of you can take my afternoon, till Alan gets better."
"That's just like Polly," said Molly teasingly. "She always has
liked boys better than girls."
Polly's face flushed.
"You know that's not so, Molly! I've done my fair share with
Bridget, but now I think it isn't just right to go chasing off
after her when we're leaving Alan all alone. If you knew--" Polly
checked herself abruptly, then added more quietly, "I'll tell you
what, girls, it isn't like Alan to be cross, and if he is, there's
some good reason for it, so I think it's our place to find out
what's the matter." And turning away, she went into the house,
leaving her companions to go on to the hospital discussing, as
they walked along, "Polly's last freak."
She stopped a moment to speak to Mrs, Hapgood, then ran directly
up-stairs and looked in at the partly open door. Alan was half
sitting, half lying on the sofa, with his book dropped, face
downward, on his knee, and his hands clasped at the back of his
head. Too much absorbed in his thoughts to notice her light step,
his face was turned away from the door, and he was scowling
moodily at a distant corner of the ceiling.
"May I come in, or are you making up a poem and don't want to be
disturbed?" inquired Polly gaily, pushing the door wide open.
The boy started up with quick enthusiasm.
"Poll! How jolly of you to come in to see a fellow!"
"Then I'm not in the way?" she asked, as she pulled off her coat.
"What an idea! I was desperately lonesome, and somehow you always
seem to fit in better than the others. Molly teases, and Jessie
tires me. Katharine is better, only she's a little given to
gushing, and boys don't like that sort of thing, you know,"
returned Alan frankly.
"I'm very glad if I suit you," said Polly, devoutly hoping she
could succeed in avoiding the sin of teasing on the one hand, and
of sentimentality on the other.
"Well, you do," replied Alan, with a heartiness which he did not
often show, for he was not much given to direct praise. "You're
first-rate company, Poll, and I'd been hoping you'd get time to
run in, for it's stupid in the house. I knew you would, when you
got round to it."
"Oh, Alan, you just make me ashamed!" said Polly contritely. "I
ought to have been here before, and 'specially when I was the one
to blame for all this, too."
"No use crying over spilt milk," answered Alan candidly. "I did
think you'd come before this; but you're here now, and so it's all
right. I've grown meek and am glad of small favors," he added,
with a merry, sidelong glance from his gray eyes.
After that, not a day passed without a call from Polly. Now that
her conscience was awakened, she realized that she had rather
neglected her friend, and did all that lay in her power to make
amends for her past forgetfulness. Her mother encouraged her
visits, for she had learned from Mrs. Hapgood that they were a
benefit to Alan and a help to herself, so Polly dropped in at her
will, morning, noon, or night, and never failed to find a hearty
welcome. The other girls laughed a little at her devotion, but it
had no effect, so they went on their way, giving the boy the odds
and ends of their time, while Polly and Alan spent long, cosy
hours together, reading or playing games, with a perfect enjoyment
of each other's society which left them no opportunity to miss
their absent friends. Damon and Pythias, the girls called them,
and never were two friends more closely united, with a simple,
true affection, which, however, had no trace of the consciousness
that one was a boy, the other a girl. Two boys could not have been
more free from sentimentality, two girls were never farther from
any suggestion of budding flirtation. They were just well-tried
friends of long standing; and when, after four weeks, Alan went
back into school again, his loyalty to Polly was, if possible,
increased by the knowledge of the good times she had given up for
his sake.
Aside from Alan's illness, the past weeks had brought to light
another cause for excitement. Aunt Jane was about to become the
second Mrs. Solomon Baxter. How, when, or where the fateful words
were spoken was never known. What powerful arguments Mr. Baxter
had brought to bear upon her, to overcome her aversion, to
domestic life, was never revealed. However, a week after Miss
Roberts had, in the presence of the children, addressed her guest
as "Solo--Mr. Baxter," she had taken her sister into her
confidence, and long before Alan was in school again, the matter
was publicly announced by Mr. Baxter's escorting her to church,
one Sunday morning, and marching up the aisle by her side, in full
view of the assembled congregation.
This was the reason that, on the night of the play, Miss Roberts
and Mr. Baxter occupied two armchairs placed side by side in the
very front row of spectators, and that the captain's opening
speech was interrupted by a little giggle, as his eyes fell on the
faces before him.
The curtain, rose on a "glade in the forest primaeval," as was
announced by the dozen playbills which did duty for the audience.
Evergreen boughs, a few potted plants, and a dingy, greenish
carpet were supposed to transform the stage into the glade in
question; but the audience had little time to study the scenery,
for the prompt entrance of the captain and a chosen companion
called up a hearty burst of applause. The over-critical might have
objected that English sailors do not, as a rule, have braids of
brown hair escaping from their hats, and that the brave captain
and explorer walked with some difficulty; but the speech and
action of the sailor were spirited, and the captain's halting step
was doubtless owing to temporary fatigue. Moreover, one glance at
the boyish face under the great cocked hat was enough to make the
most carping critic forget all other defects while, in strangely
modern idioms and with a lofty disregard for dates, the old-time
hero reminded his comrade of their long and perilous voyage over
the sea, of the great wilderness which lay before them, and of the
glory of reclaiming that wilderness to the civilization of the
Virgin Queen. The sailor resisted his eloquence and refused to
proceed, uttering mutinous threats. against his leader's life. But
even in this crisis, the captain's presence of mind did not fail
him, and, seeing that his persuasions and commands were of no
avail, he promptly bound the sailor, hand and foot, and was
preparing to carry him forward on his shoulders, when a fierce
war-whopp was heard, and three ferocious savages rushed in upon
them, just as the curtain fell.
The second scene, was regarded by the actors as being their most
elaborate attempt. The room was darkened, and at the back of the
stage, three or four dusky braves were crouched about their camp
fire which, for the moment, had taken the form of an oil stove;
while in the foreground lay Alan and Jessie, bound and motionless,
awaiting the death which seemed inevitable. Jean had expended all
her energies on this scene, and the warriors smoked the peace-
pipe, inspected their medicines, and danced a war-dance with
befitting solemnity, while the captain writhed uneasily, not so
much with mental anguish as on account of the rheumatic twinges
which his cramped position had set to running up and down his legs
and back. Then, with a close fidelity to the old histories, an
imposing throne was brought in, and Jean, as Powhatan, mounted the
insecure structure; two stones were rolled into place at her feet,
the captives' heads were arranged on these comfortless pillows,
and a brave, ball-club in hand, took his place beside each. The
sailor proved himself a coward, but the captain was bold to the
last, and alternately defied the king and encouraged his weaker
companion, who was whimpering by his side. Then, in one long
speech which, absurdly out of keeping with the surroundings as it
was, yet had the ring of true pathos, the captain bade farewell to
home, wife, and children, and welcomed death in the name and for
the honor of queen and country. Even Aunt Jane's face grew a
little gentler as the boy voice went on to the close, and there
was a momentary hush, followed by a hearty burst of applause,
while Mrs. Adams, at the side, held Polly back, that her too hasty
entrance should not mar the scene. Then Pocahontas dashed wildly
in and, regardless of consequences, cast herself down on the
captain's prostrate body with a force that elicited a sudden "Ow!"
from the hero who had just dared to defy a savage king. But his
anguish was quickly repressed, and the scene went finely to its
close, when the fair Pocahontas herself loosed his fetters, raised
him to his feet, and once more threw herself into his arms, while
Powhatan embraced them both, with many paternal remarks uttered in
the choicest Indian gutterals. While the stage was being arranged
for the next scene, John and his Pocahontas were called before the
curtain to receive the applause they had fully earned.
In the next two scenes, Jean had departed widely from the
traditional story. In the former one, the captain took the stage
alone and told over the story of his past life, dwelling with
especial emphasis on his charming wife and thirteen beautiful
children at home in mother England. His soliloquy was interrupted
by the entrance of a messenger from a ship just landed, and, after
a little political discussion, the messenger incidentally told him
of a cyclone which had blown down his house and destroyed his
entire family. The agony of the captain was tragic to behold, and
moved Mr. Baxter to wipe his eyes sympathetically, and then cast a
furtive glance at Aunt Jane who was apparently unmoved by this
strange similarity of fate. Perhaps she was reserving her sympathy
for Pocahontas. However, the captain's grief spent itself, and he
finally recovered himself with the novel consolation that
"thirteen always was an unlucky number." Then, dismissing the
messenger, he proceeded to walk up and down his cabin and take
counsel with his heart, how best to comfort himself in the future.
After suggesting many a plan and rejecting it as soon as
suggested, he resolved to set off immediately to Powhatan and ask
for the fair hand of Pocahontas. As the curtain fell on this third
scene, no one applauded more enthusiastically than Mr. Baxter.
The next scene opened with the preparations for the marriage of
Pocahontas to the young planter, John Rolfe, which were
interrupted by the sudden appearance of the captain, who bent on
one knee before Powhatan, to ask his daughter's hand. Powhatan
consented joyfully, and when Rolfe quite naturally objected, the
captain proposed a duel, and killed his rival, under the very eyes
of Pocahontas, who smiled rapturously as she watched the expiring
agonies of her former lover. Then, turning to the captain, she
said confidingly,--
"And now, dear John, everything is all prepared, so what if we get
married at once?"
Accordingly, the marriage was at once solemnized, with the
warriors as witnesses, while Powhatan descended from the throne to
give the bride away, and Rolfe opportunely came back to life in
time to serve as the clergyman who performed the ceremony.
There was a long delay between the marriage and the closing scene
of the play; and while the audience discussed the past scenes,
there went on a great commotion behind the curtain, sounds of
murmuring and of moving furniture, mingled with excited whispers,--
"Where is my crown?"
"Do somebody see if my train is all right!"
"Where is my sword?"
"Hush! Hush!"
All this was enough to rouse the expectations of the audience, but
even they were not prepared for the blaze of glory which met their
eyes as the curtain rose on the court of England. Katharine and
Florence sat on the throne, as pretty and dainty a royal couple as
could be imagined. The play-bills had announced it as the court of
Queen Elizabeth, and Florence looked the queen to perfection, in
her trailing white silk gown, and with her mother's diamonds
blazing in her golden hair; but opinions varied as to the identity
of the haughty king by her side, for no one present was aware that
Elizabeth's kingdom had any such lordly appendage. Still, it was
all very picturesque and, as Polly had said, a great deal could be
attributed to poetical license, so nobody complained, if the
throne was a little overcrowded. Back of the queen were grouped
three maids of honor, elaborately and richly dressed in gowns that
rivalled the rainbow in variety and brilliancy of color; while at
the king's left, as a fitting symbol of the British Lion, crouched
old Leo, the Langs's great Saint Bernard. After a long pause to
allow the audience to study this gorgeous scene, Pocahontas and
her captain swept in and knelt at the foot of the throne. The
queen bowed gracefully, in recognition of their homage, and bade
them rise. Then, addressing the Lion and the maids, she called
them "the free men of England" and, bidding them recall the
captain's services to her realm, she announced her determination
to knight him on the spot. The captain and his bride knelt again,
while the queen not only gave him the royal accolade and dubbed
him Sir John, but went on to extend the ceremony to his devoted
wife, and saluted her as "My Lady Pocahontas, the fairest savage
in all London town." Then the royal pair stepped down from the
throne and, joining hands with My Lord, My Lady, and the maids,
and escorted by the British Lion who amiably wagged his tail in
token of approval, they advanced and bowed low to the audience as
the curtain fell on the play. The applause was enthusiastic and
prolonged, and the actors were rejoicing in their success when, as
the clapping of hands died away, Aunt Jane's voice was heard,
solemnly remarking,--
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