Books: Half a Dozen Girls
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Anna Chapin Ray >> Half a Dozen Girls
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"You'll get your neck broken," predicted Polly. "Do you remember
the day we tried to ride Job, and he lay down and rolled us off?"
"That was your fault," returned Alan; "if you hadn't gripped his
mane so, he'd have been all right. Well," he added, sitting up and
stretching himself, "mother sent me to the market, and I s'pose I
must go, but I thought I'd just stop in a minute."
"Oh, dear! how I wish I had a brother!" sighed Polly, watching his
boyish figure, as he sauntered away across the grass.
"Yes," said Jean slowly, as she thought of the four little
brothers at home, "it is nice, but it has its drawbacks, Polly.
When they all want to do the same thing at the same time, and
can't wait a minute, why, then it doesn't seem quite so
agreeable."
In the warm twilight, Mrs. Adams and Polly sat on the broad
piazza. Miss Bean had taken her departure, long before, and Jean
had gone home to help her mother get supper and put the younger
children to bed. The birds were twittering their last sleepy good
nights, and two or three little stars were faintly showing in the
blue sky above the dark mountain, while scores of tiny fireflies
were dotting the air below.
"There, Jerusalem!" Polly was saying triumphantly, as she perched
herself on the broad arm of her mother's piazza chair; "now
everybody is out of the way, and I can have you all to myself."
"What is it to-night?" inquired Mrs. Adams, laughing, as she
pulled her light shawl over her shoulders to keep out the evening
air.
"Lots of things, mamma," answered Polly, with a sudden
thoughtfulness; "there's been a good deal to-day."
"About Molly's cousins, for instance?" asked Mrs. Adams.
"Yes," replied Polly; "I don't think we want them, mamma. I know
they won't fit in a bit. And Alan says he doesn't want them."
"That's not quite fair of Alan," said her mother: "he oughtn't to
say so without knowing anything more about them. But, Polly, you
may find them pleasant friends, and like them better than you do
Molly."
Polly shook her head with decision.
"I'm sure I shan't. But I'm afraid Molly will like them better
than she does us."
"Jealous, Polly?" And there was a tone of regret in her mother's
voice as she went on: "I am a little disappointed in my daughter.
Of course, Polly, Molly will be thrown with them a great deal,
much more than with you; and, so long as they are her cousins, she
will probably be fond of them. But, after all these years, can't
you trust Molly's friendship enough to believe that it won't make
any difference in her feeling to you, but that she can love and
care for you all, at the same time?"
"Sometimes I think she can, and sometimes I think she can't,'"
said Polly slowly. "Once in a while, when we have had a 'scrap,'
as Alan calls it, I think she doesn't care a bit about me."
"Whose fault is it, when you quarrel?" asked Mrs. Adams, smoothing
the short curls. "I don't think it is all Molly's fault, any more
than it is all yours. If my small daughter wants her friends to
care for her, she must govern that temper and study self-control."
"I know that, mamma," broke in Polly impetuously; "but you don't
have any idea how hard 'tis, nor how sorry I am after it is over."
"It is just because I do know it so well, my dear, that I keep
saying this to you; for I hope I can save you from a part, at
least, of the pain I have suffered in just this same way. I have
been through it all, Polly, and I know that every time you give up
to your temper, it is just so much easier to do it again; and if
you were to go on long enough, in time you would get to where it
would be impossible to stop yourself, and you would do something
that might be a sorrow to you, through all your life. It is just
so with every habit; the more you give way to it, the more it
becomes a part of your nature. That is the reason I am trying to
help you form the habit of a quiet, even temper. And now," added
Mrs. Adams, changing the subject, "what else was there that we
wanted to talk over?"
"'Twas Jean," said Polly, as she slipped down on the floor at her
mother's feet. "Miss Bean was twitting her to-day because she
wasn't rich." And Polly repeated the little conversation which had
taken place under the trees.
Mrs. Adams listened thoughtfully. When Polly had finished, she
said decidedly,--
"That was rather uncalled for, I think, Polly. Whatever Jean's
parents may be, they are really refined people, and Jean is at
heart a lady."
"What difference does it make, anyway?" asked Polly impatiently.
"Not so much as most people think," said Mrs. Adams. "If your
parents are cultivated people, it helps you to make something of
yourself; and whatever teaching you get from them is so much stock
in trade, just as money would be, if you were starting in
business. If, when you have this start, you don't make the most of
it, it shows that you are unworthy of it; and if you become a
grand woman without it, then you deserve ever so much more credit
than the people who have had everything in their favor. Do you
understand me, Polly?"
"Yes, I think I do," said Polly. "And it doesn't make any
difference whether we are rich or poor, does it?"
Her mother paused for a moment, as if the question were a hard one
to answer. Polly had a way of asking deeper questions than she
realized. Mrs. Adams rocked back and forth in silence two or three
times; then she said,--
"Yes and no, Polly. Money in itself doesn't make the least bit of
difference; but people that have it can make more of themselves,--
I don't say that they do, remember. If Jean didn't have to wash so
many dishes nor mend so many stockings, she could give more time
to study and reading every year. But, after all, I don't believe
she would be half so fine, unselfish a girl as she is now, when
she has to give up doing what she likes, to help her mother. It is
just the same whether it is money, or family, or a fine mind, or
beauty; the more that is given you, the more you are expected to
make of it, and the more the shame to you if you neglect it. But
we're getting into very deep subjects for so near bed-time. What
did Alan come for?"
"Just to tell me about the girls," said Polly. "He says they're
going to have a pony, and everything."
"How well Alan has been, all summer," remarked her mother.
There was a sudden click of the gate-latch, and a tall figure came
up the walk.
"Sitting here in the damp, Isabel, and catching your death of
cold! I can't afford time to sit around in the dark doing nothing,
when I think of all the good that can be done around us." And Aunt
Jane stalked past them into the house, and sat down to cut the
leaves of the last scientific magazine.
However, though Mrs. Adams did not reply, she had made up her mind
that her usual goodnight talk with Polly was far more important
than all the clubs in the world, and no words from Aunt Jane could
induce her to give up her nightly habit.
CHAPTER V.
TWO MORE GIRLS.
"It does seem as if to-morrow afternoon never would come," Molly
was saying, as she and Polly stood leaning on the fence in the
early twilight.
"What time will they get here?" Polly asked her.
"Three o'clock, and I just feel as if I couldn't wait, when I
think how every minute is bringing them along. It's going to be
splendid to have them here. You must come over to see them the
very first thing, Polly, for I want them to know my best friend
right away."
"I do hope they'll be nice," said Polly thoughtfully.
"Nice!" echoed Molly. "Of course they are. I'll tell you what,
Polly, Alan has been running them down to you. He is so queer
about it; I should think he'd like to have them come. They're just
as pretty as they can be, and boys always like pretty girls."
"Oh, dear," sighed Polly; "how nice it would be to be pretty!"
"Why, you aren't so bad, Polly." And Molly surveyed her with frank
criticism. "If only your nose wasn't quite so puggy, and you
didn't have quite so many freckles, you'd be real good-looking.
Besides, Alan says he likes your looks better than he does
Florence's."
"Does he?" And Polly flushed with pleasure.
"Yes, he told mamma so the other day; you know boys have queer
tastes," answered Molly flatteringly.
"But I wish I did know of something to take off freckles and tan,"
said Polly, rubbing her cheeks with a vicious force. "Aunt Jane
wants me to wear a veil and keep white; but I'd rather be black
and speckled all over, than make a mummy of myself. I think fresh
air and sunshine were made to be enjoyed, and not to be peeked out
at through a rag."
"It must be horrid to freckle," said Molly sympathetically. "Did
you ever try anything for it, Poll?"
"No, only lemon juice once, and it all ran into my eyes and made
them smart; but it didn't touch the freckles any."
"They say buttermilk is good," suggested Molly. "Why not try
that?"
"That's a good idea," said Polly. "We have some, and I don't
believe it would hurt. How do you use it, Molly? I'll do it to-
night, and then I could start white with your cousins, anyway; and
so much depends on first impressions, you know."
"I'm not just sure about it," answered Molly; "but I think they
put it on over night, and rub it in well. You'd better not do it,
if you are afraid it can do any harm."
"Oh, it can't," said Polly, with assurance; "and even if it does,
anything is better than looking like a fright."
"But you aren't a fright," said Molly loyally; then added, "What
does keep Alan so? His errand wasn't going to take two minutes,
and your mother will be tired of him."
"No, she won't," said Polly; "she likes Alan. Don't be in a hurry,
Molly; this is the last chance we shall have to talk for a year."
In spite of herself, Polly's voice failed a little on the last
words. She loved her friend dearly, and the coming of the cousins,
with the probability of its causing a separation between them, had
been her first real sorrow. For Molly's sake she tried to be eager
and interested about them, but when she was alone with Jean or
Alan, she was disconsolate enough over the prospect. The three or
four weeks had flown past, every day bringing the change nearer,
and the last evening had come. Arm in arm, the two girls had been
pacing up and down the walk, while they waited for Alan, and that
half-hour had made Polly realize more than ever how fond she was
of this companion with whom she had spent so many contented hours.
The memory of their frequent quarrels seemed to sink away into the
past, and only the thought of their good times was before them
then. But Alan's whistle was heard, as he came out of the house;
and he and Molly went away down the street, leaving Polly standing
alone at the gate. She looked after them until they disappeared in
the gathering darkness; then her curly head dropped on her folded
arms, and she began to sob with all the fervor of her impetuous,
affectionate nature. It was over in a minute or two, and no one
was the wiser for it but the birds in the tall elm trees above her
head. Then she turned forlornly, and started to walk to the house;
but, with Polly, the reaction always came quickly, and by the time
she reached the steps, she was humming the air which Alan had just
whistled, as she planned about the gown she would wear when she
went to see the cousins, and pictured to herself the details of
their first meeting. It was all so like Polly, to be in the depths
of grief at one moment, and to be singing the next. Her sorrows
were just as sincere as Molly's, while they lasted, but the very
intensity of them made it impossible for them to continue long at
a time. Polly's life was one of superlatives: when she was happy,
she was radiant; when she was unhappy, she was miserable. There
was no middle ground for her.
But to-night Polly was bent on beautifying herself. For Molly's
sake, as well as for her own, she was anxious to make a good
appearance in the eyes of the two girls whom she was to meet on
the morrow. The last thing before she went to her room, she
secretly visited the kitchen and helped herself to a generous bowl
of buttermilk, which she carried up stairs. She set it down on the
table and, lamp in hand, went to the mirror. In the main, Polly
was not a conceited girl, nor a vain one. On the contrary, she
thought little about her personal appearance, except to give an
occasional sigh over her hair and freckles. But, just now, it
seemed to her that beauty was the one thing to be desired, and
holding up the lamp, she gazed at herself steadily, unconscious of
the picture she made, with the light falling full upon her bright
hair and eager young face. Then she set down the lamp with a
suddenness which threatened to shatter it.
"Oh, you fright!" she said to herself, in a tone of disgusted
sincerity.
She turned away and took up the bowl from the table, sniffed at it
daintily, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. The strong, sour odor
of the buttermilk was not pleasant, certainly, but what mattered
that, if it removed the obnoxious freckles? She shut her teeth,
held her breath, and resolutely applied it to her face, putting it
on freely, and rubbing it in until her arms ached and her cheeks
burned under their unwonted treatment. The next morning she
repeated the operation with even greater zeal, and ended by a
vigorous application of soap and water, and a rough towel. Then
she drew near the glass once more, to see and admire her soft,
white skin, where no freckle would be found. As she gazed, her
eyes grew round with wonder, and she stood as if transfixed at the
sight before her. To say the least, it was striking. The freckles
had not disappeared, but still the buttermilk had done its work,
and Polly's face presented every appearance of having been
varnished, for, thanks to the polishing which it had undergone, it
shone like a new copper tea-kettle. For an instant, tears of
mortification stood in the gray eyes; then Polly's sense of the
ridiculous had its way, and, dropping into a chair, she laughed
till her cheeks were crimson under their metallic surface, and her
lashes were damp with hysterical tears.
"What in the world are you laughing at, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's
voice at her door. "The breakfast bell has rung, and it's time you
were down-stairs."
"Yes'm," replied Polly, suddenly becoming sober again, as she
remembered that she must present herself to the family in this
plight, and would probably be well laughed at for her pains.
She delayed in her room as long as she dared, but her mother had
always insisted on perfect regularity at meal times, and Polly
knew that she must appear. With one last, despairing glance at the
mirror, a glance which was by no means reassuring, she turned away
and silently went down the stairs and into the dining-room, hoping
to take her place at the table so quietly that she could escape
notice. It was not her mother whom she dreaded, but she shrank
from her father's teasing and Aunt Jane's merciless comments. As
she drew her chair up to the table, Aunt Jane glanced up from her
oatmeal.
"Late again, Polly! Why, what have you been putting on your face,
child?"
Polly's cheeks grew scarlet, but she answered, with an attempt at
carelessness,--
"Oh, nothing but a little buttermilk. Why?"
"Why?" responded Aunt Jane, with needless emphasis, "I should
think you'd better ask why! Have you looked in the glass this
morning?"
"Yes," answered Polly faintly, for they were all staring at her,
and she saw a mischievous twinkle come into her father's blue
eyes.
"Well, I'd like to know what fresh piece of nonsense this is,"
Aunt Jane was beginning severely, when the doctor interposed,--
"Wait a minute, Jane; don't be in such a hurry to scold. Come,
Polly, tell us what you have been doing to make yourself look like
a South Sea Islander or a Pawnee?"
Polly dropped her eyes and played with her fork for a minute; but
sulkiness was not in her nature, and after a pause, she confessed.
"Molly said buttermilk was good for freckles, so I put some on
mine, but they didn't come off. You see," she added, turning to
her mother with the certainty that she would find sympathy in that
quarter, if in no other, "the Shepard girls are coming to-day, and
Molly wanted me to go over to see them right away, and I wanted to
look as well as I can."
Polly was interrupted by a hearty laugh from the doctor, who laid
down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, to enjoy his
merriment to the utmost.
"I think there's no doubt of their being struck by your looks,
Polly," he said at length. Then, as he saw her bite her lips to
steady them, he added kindly, "Shall I tell my little girl what I
really think about it? I don't consider the freckles themselves
beautiful; but I would rather see her with enough of them to prove
that she lives out of doors in the sunshine, as every healthy
child should, than be one of the little, pale-faced beauties
brought up in the house, or under veils and broad hats. If I can't
have but one, I want my Polly to have health rather than beauty,
for health is beauty, especially in children."
"Better have a freckled face than a freckled soul," added Aunt
Jane, feeling that here was the opportunity to make a fine moral
point.
"There's more connection there than you think, Jane," responded
Dr. Adams quickly. "A child is much more likely to have an
unfreckled, unspotted soul, when her body has the health which
comes with plenty of exposure to the air and sun. Show me a
healthy child, and a small amount of care will make her a good
one; I'm not so sure of the sickly ones. It's my opinion that more
can be made of a healthy sinner than a feeble saint. Isn't it so,
Poll?" And he leaned over to pass his broad hand caressingly down
the shining face, as he added gaily, "There's one good thing about
it, my dear; we shan't have to waste any gas to-night. The light
of your countenance will be quite enough."
They were still sitting lingering over their meal, when Alan came
in to bring a note from Molly. At sight of Polly, he started back
in mock dismay, exclaiming,--
"Great Scott, Polly! What's the matter?"
"Don't tell Molly, Alan," she begged; "but I tried to get rid of
my freckles, that's all."
Alan gave a low, expressive whistle.
"I'm glad it's nothing worse. We had a girl once, that told Molly
if she let the moon shine on her while she was asleep, she'd all
swell up and turn black, and I didn't know but you were beginning
to do that."
"I thought you had given up slang, Alan," remarked Mrs. Adams, as
she motioned him to a chair beside her.
"So I have, mostly. Mother didn't want me to use much, and I
couldn't get along without any; so we split the difference and
agreed that I could have one. I chose 'great Scott,' but it
doesn't always fit the case. I say, Polly, you'll be over to-
night, won't you?"
Polly looked doubtfully at her mother.
"Isn't it rather soon, Alan?" Mrs. Adams asked.
"Not a bit of it," answered the boy. "Mother will be busy with
Uncle Henry, because he'll only be here one night, and we'll have
to see to the girls. Molly can't manage them both, and I'm no use
at all, so we need Polly to help us out. Mother said you'd better
come over about five, Poll, and stay to supper."
"I don't know whether I can get bleached in time," answered Polly,
laughing, as she followed him to the door; "but I'll come if I
can. And don't you dare tell Molly."
"Catch me telling tales!" returned Alan, with some dignity.
"That's not in my line, Poll; and not on you, anyway."
With an appearance of great carelessness, Polly strolled out to
the hammock soon after two o'clock that afternoon, and settled
herself, book in hand. But for the next hour, there was little
reading done, for Polly's gray eyes often wandered from the pages
before her, and fixed themselves on the distant corner around
which the Shepard family must come. It was a long hour of waiting,
and Polly had begun to think that the train must have been wrecked
by the way, when the distant, shrill whistle was heard. At the
sound, she drew herself into a more dignified position, settled
her skirts about her and fell to reading with a will. But though
her eyes went down the left-hand page and up again to the top of
the right-hand one, she could not have told so much as the title
of the book, so absorbed was she in listening for the wheels that
would pass the house. She heard them drawing near, but continued
to be lost in her reading until just as the carriage was in front
of her. Then she glanced up, as if by accident, and was filled
with confusion to see Alan leaning down from his seat on the box
and pointing at her, while two broad hats and two girl faces were
bent forward to survey her curiously. Alan waved his cap; she
answered his salute, and the carriage went swiftly on, leaving
Polly to stare at the pile of trunks strapped on behind it, with a
vague feeling that her intended effect had been a little marred by
Alan's demonstration.
"Served me right, though!" she remarked philosophically to
herself, as she curled herself up to read in earnest, now that her
excitement was over. "I needn't have tried to pose for them; that
sort of thing doesn't suit me; I'd better leave it to Florence."
It was with some misgiving, that Polly, two hours later, started
to take the familiar walk to the Hapgood house. Every riotous curl
was brushed until it lay close to her small head, but already the
golden ends were doing their best to break loose once more; thanks
to her mother's efforts, her burnished skin had lost a little of
its coppery lustre; and her fresh blue and white gingham gown was
as dainty and trim as loving hands could make it. But Polly, as
she looked in the glass before starting, only saw that her hair
was red, and that her freckles would insist on showing. However,
Alan's compliment came to her relief, and she dismissed the
question of her looks with a smile, as something not worth a
thought, and ran off down-stairs to say good by to her mother.
Alan saw her coming, and started to meet her.
"What's the matter, Alan?" she said, noticing his frown, as she
joined him.
"Nothing but a crick in my knee," he explained cheerfully; "I
think I took cold last night, perhaps. They're up-stairs with
Molly," he added vaguely. "I'll call them down, or will you go
up?"
"I'll wait here," said Polly, seating herself on the broad stone
step. "What are they like, Alan?"
"Stunning beauties, both of them," responded Alan, with some
enthusiasm. "Katharine knows it, that's the worst of it. I do hate
a girl that thinks she's pretty. I'd rather they'd be homely as
Miss Bean, and not think about themselves, all the time. But I'll
go call them." And he departed, leaving Polly to meditate on his
words.
The girls soon came down the old stairway behind her, and as Polly
shyly rose to meet them, she felt at once the truth of Alan's
description of Katharine. There was a strong family resemblance
between the sisters, both were dark, and they had the same bright,
brown eyes and smooth, dark brown hair; but Katharine was by far
the more beautiful, with her pink cheeks, small regular teeth,
full lips, and long straight nose with just a suggestion of
sauciness in the slant of its tip. It was this nose that
captivated Polly, and, indeed, Katharine was like a beautiful
picture, in figure and feature, while her rapidly changing
expressions and her brilliant health added a charm which no
picture could ever have. She seemed years older than the other
girls, and this effect was increased by the elegance of her dress
and by her quiet, settled manners, which made Polly feel very
young and shabby in her spotless gingham. Katharine shook hands
with a dignity that quite overawed Polly, who turned to look at
Jessie with a conscious feeling of relief. Jessie was a plump,
lively young woman of twelve, with less, perhaps, of her sister's
delicate beauty; but the lack was more than made good by her
perfect unconsciousness of self, and her frank, winning manner,
which led Polly to forget her formal greeting, and seize her hand,
saying impulsively,--
"I'm so glad you've come to live here!"
Jessie laughed, showing a pair of deep dimples in her dark skin,
as she answered, with a cordiality equal to Polly's own,--
"And I'm so glad Molly has such nice friends,"
That settled the matter between them, and, arm in arm, they
strolled out to the tennis court, chatting like old friends, while
Molly and Alan followed with Katharine, who looked about her
indifferently, nodding slightly, from time to time, in answer to
some question.
"I do think these old houses are splendid," Jessie was saying
eagerly. "I never saw one before. Out in Omaha we call a house old
that has been built twenty years."
"Haven't you ever been East before?" asked Polly, with a feeling
of pity for any girl who had never known the delights of life in
an old New England town.
"Never since I was a year old, so I don't remember much about it,"
answered Jessie. "I think I am going to like it, though, for the
place is lovely, and Aunt Ruth is so sweet."
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