Books: Half a Dozen Girls
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Anna Chapin Ray >> Half a Dozen Girls
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"Don't worry about that, Polly," said Alan. "At present rate of
progress, if I lose a month or two of school every winter, I
shouldn't get through college till long after you were dead and
out of the way. And then, I don't think I want to be a doctor,
anyway."
"Now, Alan," retorted Polly; "that's not quite fair of you, when
you know how my heart is set on having you. a splendid doctor, and
in time taking papa's place. I've told you, time and time again,
that if I had a brother, he would have to be one; and, as long as
I haven't, you're the next best thing. You'd make such a splendid
one, too. I know, for I asked papa if you wouldn't, and he said
yes. He said--" Polly came to a sudden pause.
"Said what, Poll? Out with it."
"I wasn't going to tell, for fear 'twould make you conceited,"
returned Polly; "but if I thought it would make any difference
with your plans, I'd run the risk, only you must be really in
earnest about it, Alan, and think it all over. He said you had
just the character that goes to make a good doctor, brave and true
and unselfish, and always gentle and calm and jolly. Now doesn't
that make you want to be something grand?" And Polly turned to
look at the boy, with all her earnestness, all her love for him
lighting her face and beautifying it, in spite of the brown
freckles on her cheeks.
Alan's face flushed and his eyes were shining, as he asked
eagerly,--
"Did Dr. Adams really say all that about me?"
"Yes, he said so only the other day, and I suppose I oughtn't to
have told you; but, ever since our talk one day last winter when
you'd been to the hospital, I've been hoping and hoping that some
day you'd be just the right kind of a doctor, one that cures his
patients, whether they can pay or not, and makes them love him, in
spite of the horrid things he has to do to them. If you'd only do
that, Alan, I should be so proud of you."
"Should you, Poll? Well, I'll think about it, but it's too soon to
make up my mind yet. Mother wants me to be a minister."
"You a minister! Why, Alan, you'd laugh, even in the middle of a
sermon; and I know you'd never go to a funeral without thinking
how Job went, the other day. And anyway, I'd a great deal rather
be a doctor, for they do more good. Ministers _talk;_ doctors
_do_."
"Some ministers _do_," said Jessie.
"Yes, some of them; but it's their business to preach, and that's
all most of them try to do. You won't hear of many ministers that
get up, cold winter nights, every night for a week, to go to see
one poor little croupy baby, just for love of it, and not
expecting to get a cent. I don't believe that, taken year in and
year out, there are many missionaries that work harder or do more
good than papa does."
"Not many doctors, either," suggested Alan.
"That may be; but just his doing it proves that it can be done, if
anybody is willing to try. Don't shirk that way, Alan; it isn't
like you. You can do it just as well as he can, and I mean you
shall, some day, if teasing can do any good."
"Do you know, Polly," said Jessie; "you've talked about it till
you make me want to be a doctor, myself. I don't suppose mamma
would ever let me, but I'd like to try, and I think I could do
it."
"Why don't you, then?" asked Polly heartily. "I don't want to
myself, and I shouldn't succeed. I should be like the old doctor
papa tells about, that used to swear at his patients when they
didn't mind him. I never could keep cool when things went wrong.
Besides, I think it's a man's work, more than a woman's."
"I'd like to be one, and prove that you are wrong," returned
Jessie, with some spirit.
"If I really made up my mind to be a doctor, I'd be a good one, if
I had to give up everything else for the sake of it; but it isn't
in my line," said Polly a little regretfully. "But when you and
Alan are famous all over the world, I'll go around telling
everybody how I was the first one to start you in that line; and
they'll all be grateful to me, even if I haven't any career, see
if they aren't."
"In the meantime," said Alan, suddenly breaking off the
conversation, "has anybody the slightest idea where we are?"
"I haven't," said Jessie, pulling up Cob abruptly. "I've been so
busy talking and thinking that I haven't paid any attention to
where we were going."
"I never saw this road before," said Polly. "It's too far out of
town for Job's wanderings. But go on; we shall come to a house or
a guideboard before long."
"To judge by the sun and by my appetite," remarked Alan pensively,
"it must be almost noon."
"Oh, that makes me think!" exclaimed Polly. "Get up, Alan; you're
right on them!"
"On what?" inquired the boy lazily, without stirring.
"On the gingersnaps. Mamma gave me some to put in my pocket, in
case we should get hungry, and here you've been sitting on top of
them, all the way!" There was an accent of despair in Polly's
tone.
Alan rose, and she plunged her hand into her pocket.
"Just look here!" she said accusingly, as she drew out a crumpled
paper bag.
Alan caught it from her hand and peered down into it.
"Pulverized gingersnaps!" he exclaimed. "Want some, Jessie?"
"I'm so hungry, I'm thankful for anything," she replied. "Let's
eat up the largest pieces ourselves, Polly, and make Alan take the
dust for his share, for he was the one to blame."
"I know it, and now he'll never know how good they were," returned
Polly relentlessly, as the girls devoured the contents of the bag,
even to the last crumb. "He deserves to go hungry."
"But what's that building over there?" asked Jessie, a little
later, pointing to a great red house on the side of a distant
hill.
"That? That's the poorhouse," replied Polly, after studying it for
a minute or two. "I came here once with papa, ever so long ago.
I'd like to know how we ever managed to get here; it's seven or
eight miles from town."
"Seven or eight miles from town! And we are dying of starvation,"
said Alan.
"Speak for yourself, please; Jessie and I have had lunch," said
Polly. "But," she went on, struck with a sudden thought, "let's go
and see Miss Bean, and maybe she'll invite us to dinner. She ought
to, for she's been fed at our house often enough."
Jessie fell in with the idea.
"Let's try it, anyway," she said. "I've always wanted to see what
they do in such a place, and I don't believe there would be any
harm in it."
"What harm could there be?" said Polly. "We needn't tell her we've
come to dinner; only, if she should happen to ask us, we could
stay, after she's teased a little."
Turning from the main road, they drove under the great gateway and
followed a winding drive up to the very door of the house. A few
old crones sat in a row by the door, chattering like so many
venerable crows; but when they caught sight of the children, their
voices sank to whispers, as they watched Alan spring to the
ground, hold up his arms to help Polly and Jessie, and then
deliberately tie Cob to the nearest post.
At sight of the women in their plain white caps and dark calico
gowns, Jessie was seized with a nervous desire to laugh, and hid
behind Polly, whispering,--
"You do the talking, Polly; I can't."
"But what shall I say?" returned Polly, in the same tone.
"Isn't there a matron or something?" said Jessie doubtfully. "Ask
for her."
By this time, Alan had joined them and they held a hasty
consultation, as a result of which Alan walked straight up to the
old women. Hat in hand, and a smile on his bright, boyish face, he
bowed low before them and asked if he could be directed to the
matron's room. Alan's smile never failed to move a woman's heart,
no matter whether she was old or young. In the present instance,
one of the aged dames tottered to her feet, saying,--
"Bless your heart, sonny! I'll show you, myself, to pay for your
sweet manners." And she toddled away, followed by the girls and by
Alan whose sweet manners had collapsed into a stifled giggle at
the unlooked-for compliment.
They were taken into a long, wide hall through the middle of which
ran a strip of rag carpet, edged with plain wooden settees.
Everything was scrupulously neat and clean, but the only ornament
in sight was a stuffed poodle under a glass case, above which hung
the somewhat inappropriate motto: _God loveth a cheerful
giver_. Here they were told to sit down, while the old woman
went in search of the matron. The next few moments were rather
uncomfortable for all three of the children. Now that they were
really inside the institution, they were a little frightened at
what they had done; and yet the ridiculous side of their being
there struck them so keenly that they dared not speak, for fear of
being found laughing, when the all-powerful matron should make her
appearance. At length she came, a trim little woman, with an
earnest face and a business-like manner. At Polly's request to be
allowed to see Miss Bean, she shook her head doubtfully.
"It isn't one of our regular visiting days," she began." Was your
errand an important one?"
"Not very," returned Polly, with a lingering accent on the second
word, as she caught the sound of a distant clatter of dishes and
breathed in a vague odor of boiled beef.
"I am sorry to disappoint you," the matron went on; "and if you
have come all the way from town, it is too bad to send you back
without seeing her, for a minute. Call Miss Bean," she said to a
servant. "What name shall I tell her?" she asked Polly.
"Polly Adams, ma'am," answered Polly.
The matron became suddenly cordial, like a snowbank under the rays
of the spring sun.
"Isn't this Dr. Adams's daughter?" she asked. "I thought I saw a
familiar look about the lower part of the face."
"Yes, Dr. Adams is my father," said Polly, whose hopes of staying
sprang into life once more.
"Indeed! I am very glad to see you for his sake," returned the
matron. "Perhaps he sent you?"
"No--o, he didn't send us; we came," faltered Polly.
"Never mind; I am glad to see you, anyway. And these are your
young friends, I suppose. Wouldn't you all like to stay and have
dinner here? It is almost ready," she added, in a generous burst
of hospitality.
"Thank you, we should be delighted," said Alan hastily, fearing
Polly might lose the opportunity by politely hesitating.
"Well, Polly Adams, where in the name of time did you come from?"
asked Miss Bean's voice behind her.
Polly turned around. Could this be Miss Bean, this little,
withered figure in the calico gown and white cap? Where was the
green and black gown? Where were the lace mitts and the shaker
bonnet? However, there could be no doubt of Miss Bean's identity
when she said, in her usual abrupt manner,--
"How's your ma? And who are these children?"
"This is Alan Hapgood," replied Polly, introducing her friends;
"and this is Jessie Shepard."
"You don't say so! Henry and Kate Shepard's daughter, from out in
Omaha?"
"Yes."
Miss Bean completed Jessie's embarrassment by critically
scrutinizing her from head to foot, then asking suddenly,--
"Do they dress much out in. Omaha?"
This unexpected question sent Alan, off to examine the stuffed
poodle, while Miss Bean turned to Polly again.
"Did your ma send you?"
"No, ma'am," said Polly.
"Then what did you come for?" was the hospitable query.
"We were driving this way, and so we stopped to see you," answered
Polly, with a feeling of shame at her own insincerity.
"Much obliged," returned Miss Bean, with grim sarcasm; then she
added, "How's your Uncle Solomon? I always thought he and Miss
Roberts would come round, if I only just put 'em in a way to think
of it."
Miss Bean's questions bade fair to last indefinitely, but
fortunately the dinner bell sounded, and the matron came back to
lead her young guests into the great dining-room, at one end of
which she had arranged a small table with seats for them, and for
Miss Bean who was regarded with no small degree of envy, as she
took her place in this honored circle. The matron seated herself
with Alan, and Jessie at her left, Polly and Miss Bean at her
right, and the simple dinner of boiled beef and vegetables was
brought in. Except for an occasional request for food, the meal
was eaten in silence, while the old people curiously watched the
matron's group, and listened eagerly to the conversation they kept
up. Polly, too, was silent, gazing with a curious fascination at
the long line of aged faces, some peaceful, others querulous, but
all so alike that the row of them seemed to become an endless
perspective of white caps and wagging jaws. Her reverie was
interrupted by Miss Bean, who leaned across the table to say
reprovingly to Jessie, as she refused the boiled cabbage,--
"Folks that go a-visiting hadn't ought to be difficult with their
victuals."
"Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to live in such a
place?" exclaimed Polly, as they drove away, after being conducted
over the establishment. "I'd work and scrimp, year after year,
rather than, just sit down and be supported by the town."
"Yes," answered Jessie; "but I suppose they do have real good
times, in their way."
"So does a cat that eats her milk, and then goes to sleep in the
sun," returned Polly. "That may be their way, but I'm thankful it
isn't mine."
"I presume all they care for is to have enough to eat, and to keep
warm in winter and cool in summer," said Alan. "Some of them
looked as old as the Rocky Mountains, and I don't see why they
shouldn't live forever, doing nothing but sun themselves."
"I'd rather live a little shorter time, and live a little harder,
while I'm about it," said Polly. "I think I prefer wearing out to
rusting out."
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the town once more,
and drove up the street to Polly's house. Mrs. Adams was at the
gate, watching for them.
"At last!" she exclaimed. "I was really getting quite anxious
about you, for fear Cob had run away, or you were lost. Aren't you
hungry? Where have you been?"
"Oh, no, we aren't hungry," said Alan, as he jumped out to help
Polly to the ground. "We've been to dinner at the poorhouse, and
Jessie has disgraced us all, by refusing to eat cabbage."
CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. BAXTER TAKES A NAP.
They had all been at the Langs's that afternoon. The third of June
was Florence's fourteenth birthday, and Mrs. Lang had celebrated
the day by giving a little afternoon tea on the broad piazza,
overlooking the grounds. It had been a pretty sight, with the
dainty gowns of the girls, and the active figures of the few boys
who had been favored with invitations to share in the games on the
lawn. The ever-present amateur photographer had thought so too,
apparently, and from his position in the street, he had already
aimed his detective camera at them, when Alan discovered him and
gave the alarm, only just in time to prevent his stolen success.
Polly and Jean walked home with the Hapgoods in the early
twilight, and, refusing Mrs. Hapgood's invitation to go into the
house, the girls settled themselves on the two high-backed seats
at either side of the broad front porch, and gave themselves up to
the luxury of talking over the event of the day.
"It must be fun to be able to have company, and do it up in such
splendid style as Mrs. Lang does," said Jean a little enviously,
as she pulled out the bunch of pink clover she had worn at her
belt.
"It was lovely, wasn't it?" assented Molly. "Mrs. Lang doesn't do
it often, but when she does have a party, it is always perfect."
"After all," said Katharine, "it's all from the outside, somehow.
I don't know whether you understand what I mean, but I know,
myself."
"I'm glad you do, Kit," said her sister disrespectfully; "for it's
certain that nobody else does. Remember that we are young, and
explain yourself a little."
"I did really mean something, Jessie," said Katharine. "With Mrs.
Lang, it seems as if she set the day and gave her orders to the
servants, and that's all there was about it. Of course she
entertains charmingly, and all that; but it makes me feel, all the
time, as if she did it to pay her debts, and not because she likes
to have us there. When we go to--well, to Polly's, for instance,
I. never think of that, for Mrs. Adams always acts as if she
enjoyed us as much as we enjoy being there."
"She does," answered Polly, with conviction. "She says she never
half grew up, for she likes young people now better than she does
those of her own age."
"It must be horrid to have to give parties, whether you want to or
not, just because somebody else has invited you," remarked Molly.
"That's the way they all do in society, though," said Jessie, with
a knowing air.
"Well, if that's society, then. I don't want any of it," said
Polly ungratefully, while she ran her fingers through her hair and
stood it wildly on end. "I just want my friends, and I want them
whenever I feel like it; but I don't care anything about having a
crowd of people round in the way, just because it's fashionable,
when I don't, care a snap for them. If I ever grow up and come
out, as they call it, I'm going to like my friends for themselves,
and not for their clothes and their parties and their good
dinners. I can buy those at a hotel, if I get hungry."
"And when hotels fail, there is always the poorhouse," suggested
Jean. "But, girls, do you ever want to be very, very rich, just
for a little while?"
"I don't think I ever stopped to think much about it," answered
Polly; "but I suppose it would be fun."
"'Tisn't so much that I want more things than I have," said Jean;
"but, not often, only just once in a while, I do so wish I could
go ahead and be real extravagant, spend ever so much money for all
sorts of foolish things, have parties and fine clothes, and travel
everywhere I wanted. I know perfectly well that I shouldn't enjoy
myself half so much as I do now, when I have to work for all I
get; but still, I'd like to try the other, just for a change."
"And then, after a little while, you'd be longing to get back
again," returned Polly. "I don't believe life is all fun, even to
people that are very rich. I never saw anybody yet that I wanted
to change places with."
"Let's all tell what we would do, if we were very rich and could
have just what we wanted," suggested Alan, from the step.
"All right, only do come in under cover, child," said Polly, in a
maternal tone; "or else you'll be so stiff to-morrow that you
can't move." And she tucked up the skirt of her best gown, to make
room for the lad, who obediently settled himself between her and
Katharine.
"Go it, Jean," he said; "you started us to wishing, so it's only
fair you should speak first. What would you do, if you could have
your choice?"
"Study, till I knew everything there was to be known," returned
Jean, without hesitation. "I'd go to college here, and then I'd go
to Europe, to one city after another, and learn all I could in
each."
"You'd be a perfect valley of dry bones, then," commented Polly.
"People that know everything are very stupid."
"I wouldn't be," said Jean. "I'd found colleges with my money, and
go round lecturing to them, till they knew just as much as I did."
"H'm!" said Alan. "What will you do, Poll?" Polly laughed.
"It would be hard to choose, but I think I'd begin by adopting
about twenty small boys. Then, if I had any time left, I'd--I'd--
oh, I think perhaps I'd like to write a book of poems."
"Good for you, Poll! How I envy the boys, only you'd make them all
into doctors. Molly?"
"I would travel, all over the whole world, and down into
Australia," returned Molly. "I'd go to Russia and Spain and China
and the Nile, and stay everywhere just as long as I wanted to."
"Who wouldn't like to do that?" said Jean. "Katharine, what will
you do?"
"I'd have a lovely house somewhere in Europe, Venice, perhaps, or
else Paris, and it should be full of magnificent pictures. And
then I'd have my friends come and stay with me for a year at a
time; and I'd have young artists come and live there, and give
them lessons,--not teach them, you know, but pay for them, to give
them a start, when they couldn't afford it. And when they had
learned to paint and were ready to go home, I'd pay their expenses
for a year, till they were able to support themselves. And then
I'd help poor students through college, and do ever so many things
like that."
"Katharine, you are modest in your plans!" said Molly, laughing.
"How much of an income do you expect to have?"
"I didn't know we were limited," Katharine answered. "I thought we
could have whatever we wished."
"That was the idea," said Alan. "Go on, Jessie; what would you do
if you had all the money in the world?"
"Just what I intend to do now," she replied coolly, "be a doctor."
"What!" And Molly stared at her cousin with wide-open eyes.
"Yes, I think that's what I mean to do," answered Jessie. "I
believe I should rather like it, and if I can tease mamma into
letting me try, I'm coming East again, in a few years, to study."
"Well, you must be in want of something to do," said Molly, "if
you have any idea of patching up broken bones and getting yourself
exposed to small-pox and all sorts of fevers. But go on, Alan;
it's your turn."
"Let's see," said Alan reflectively; "first of all, I'd get over
my rheumatism, and then, for a few years, I'd be the very best
base-ball player in the world. Then, after I was too old for that,
I'd travel round a little while, and then I'd settle down and be--
"
Polly listened breathlessly for the decision.
"Be what?" she asked eagerly.
"An undertaker."
"Oh, Alan, how mean of you!" protested Jessie. "Here we've all
been and told our wishes as truly as we could, and now you are
just making fun of us. That isn't fair."
"Isn't it?" And Alan laughed teasingly. "How do you know I haven't
told truly? But, to be honest, I think I'd go into partnership
with either Polly or you. I'd like to be a first-class doctor, or
else a great author."
"Poems?" inquired Polly sympathetically.
"Poems! No; nor novels either, nor any such trash as that,"
returned the boy scornfully. "I'd write great, long books with
real solid work in them, history, or else some kind of science,
books that wouldn't be forgotten just as soon as they were read,
but ones that would help the world along by making people know
more and more, the more they studied them."
"I wonder if we shall any of us ever get what we want," said Jean
thoughtfully." Jessie stands the best chance."
"You wouldn't say so, if you knew mamma as well as Kit and I do,"
returned Jessie, laughing. "I shan't have an easy time, when I try
to persuade her to let me carry out my plan. She wouldn't be any
more horrified if I wanted to be a farmer and plant my own
potatoes."
"What will Florence be, I wonder," said Polly. "It would have to
be something very pretty and dainty, or it would never suit her."
"Florence? Her future is all cut out," said Jean. "Didn't Mrs.
Hapgood tell it, last Hallowe'en, a devoted husband and a
beautiful home? She'll have everything she can possibly want, and
she'll keep it all in apple pie order, and she and her husband
will do nothing but bill and coo all day long."
"I don't believe it," said Molly, laughing at the sentimental
picture which Jean had called up. "I think Florence has more to
her than all that."
"What more can she want?" asked Katharine. "If she is a perfect
wife in a happy home, there isn't anything much better for any
woman."
"But it's getting dark, and I must go," said Polly, as she rose.
"Come, Jean; mamma will think I am lost. Good night, girls."
In spite of their assurances that they were not at all timid, Alan
insisted on going with the girls; so they stopped to speak to Mrs.
Adams, then walked on together as far as Jean's gate, where they
lingered, talking, for a minute or two.
"Come in now, Alan," said Polly, as they reached her house again;
"it's early, really, and Jerusalem's out there on the piazza, all
alone. You know she always likes to see you."
Alan hesitated for a moment, but the last fading light of the warm
June day was too tempting, and he went in. Mrs. Adams rose from
her piazza chair to meet them, and stepped forward into the faint
light which shone out through the closely drawn shade of the
parlor window.
"Yes, it is pleasant out here," she answered Polly; "but if you
children are going to sit outside, you must have some wraps, for
it is quite cool. Polly dear, just run in to get a shawl to put
on, and bring the afghan to tuck around Alan. It's on the parlor
sofa."
Polly vanished through the open door. When she came back, she was
laughing.
"Why didn't you tell me they were in there, Jerusalem?" she asked,
as she tossed the afghan to Alan, and then settled herself on a
sweet-grass mat at her mother's feet. "Aunt Jane is reading aloud
a report of something or other, and Mr. Baxter looks so bored. He
yawned like a chasm when I went in."
"Perhaps you disturbed him in the middle of a nap," suggested
Alan.
"Maybe I did. I don't blame him for getting sleepy," responded
Polly pityingly. "It all seemed to be about convict labor and
penal servitude and such things. I shouldn't wonder if something
was the matter in Russia."
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