Books: Half a Dozen Girls
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Anna Chapin Ray >> Half a Dozen Girls
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"Sell Job! Never!" protested Mrs. Adams. "I would almost as soon
sell Polly. No money could ever make up for that old fellow's
intelligence, and for the real love he gives me."
"Yes," added Alan sympathetically; "and no money could buy his
obedience to you, this afternoon, when he was loose."
While the table was being cleared for the dessert, the doctor
suddenly turned to his daughter.
"Well, Polly," he asked; "how comes on the reading club?"
"Finely, papa. Why?"
"I didn't know but you were tired of it, by this time, and wanted
something else."
"Oh, no; we have such good times," said Jean enthusiastically.
"And if we gave it up, you never would get your stockings darned,
either."
"Oh!" And the doctor lapsed into silence.
"What made you ask, papa?" inquired Polly.
"Mere curiosity."
"I know better than that," she said, seizing his hand as it lay on
the table. "Now, popsy Adams, you just tell us what you are
driving at."
"What is the use?" asked the doctor provokingly. "I did have
another plan; but if you are all satisfied, I'll offer it to some
of the other girls, or perhaps Aunt Jane will take it in charge."
This was too much for Polly.
"Do tell us," she begged. "We'll do it too, whatever it is; won't
we girls?"
"But what if it is something that isn't funny at all, something
for which you have to give up your own good times?"
Polly's face fell, but she answered steadily,--
"We'll do it, just the same."
"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Aunt Jane approvingly. "I
have felt that it was high time you girls were made to take an
interest in something really useful."
"What is it, Dr. Adams?" implored Jessie, whose curiosity was by
this time fired.
"Well, it's just this: down in the hospital there's a girl about
Katharine's age shut up in a room by herself, where she must stay
a year. She isn't pretty; she isn't especially bright; she is an
Irish girl from one of the hill towns in the northern part of the
state. But she has something the matter with her back, so all she
can do is to lie there on a sort of frame, and look at the wall of
her room."
The doctor paused. While he had been talking, he had watched the
faces of the girls, curious to see the effect which his short
story would have on them. Polly's cheeks were flushed, Jean's eyes
were shining with her interest, but Katharine's lashes drooped on
her cheek, and were a little moist. He nodded approvingly to
himself, as he looked at her.
"Go on, papa," urged Polly.
"There isn't much more to say," returned her father, resting his
arm on the back of her chair. "It occurred to me to-day to wonder
if you girls couldn't each of you take a day a week,--there are
just the six of you, you know,--and run in to see her for a few
minutes after school. She is perfectly well, except for her back,
and you can imagine how dull it must be for her there. Now,
suppose you could drop in for half an hour and get acquainted with
her, or read something simple to her? She's not up to 'Pilgrim's
Progress' yet." And he pinched Polly's cheek playfully.
He stopped again. This time there was a murmur of assent from his
hearers. Then he resumed,--
"Now, talk this over among yourselves and see what you think of
it. I don't say you ought to do it, remember; you all have a good
deal to do, I know. I only suggest the chance to you. I would
think of it well, for unless you could be regular, it might be
worse than nothing, for she would come to depend on it, and be
disappointed. I warn you, she isn't very attractive, she is only
ill and lonely."
"What's her name?" asked Florence, as the doctor started to leave
the table.
"Bridget O'Keefe."
"What!" And in spite of herself, Jessie wrinkled her nose in
disgust.
"Yes, I told you she was Irish, you know," answered the doctor
briskly. "Now I must be off. Think it over till Monday and then
let me know."
And a moment later, the front door shut behind him.
Aunt Jane went out after dinner, and Mrs. Adams made an excuse to
leave the girls to themselves. Gathered around the parlor fire,
they had an animated discussion, and, with many a practical
suggestion from Alan, their plan of work was agreed upon. Each was
to take her own day, and give up half an hour after school to a
call on this other girl, who was condemned to lie still and know
that the world was going on around her just as usual. There was no
difficulty in planning for the first five days of the week; but
the girls, though fired with a desire to do good, yet drew back
from pledging themselves to break into their Saturday afternoons,
the one holiday of the week.
"What's the use of going Saturday?" said Florence. "If we go to
see her every other day but that, it ought to be enough."
"I don't want any half-way work," said Jean decidedly, "and yet,
it does seem too bad to upset our fun when we've always been
together. What if we draw lots for it?"
But Alan objected.
"That's kind of a shirky way to do. If I'm ever ill, I don't want
you drawing lots which shall go to my funeral. I'll go Saturday,
myself."
"You can't, Alan; you aren't a girl," said Molly. "No," added
Katharine, as she leaned over to lay her small, slim hand on his;
"the boy can't go, but he can teach the girls a lesson in
generosity. I'll take Saturday myself, girls."
Alan turned to her impulsively.
"Good for you, Kit!" he said warmly. "I'm proud to have you for a
cousin."
Katharine laughed lightly.
"It's nothing, after all. I have more time than most of you, and
it's only a little while, anyway."
It was only a little thing, as Katharine had said, but by it she
gained far more than the one short half-hour a week would ever
cost her; and, too, from that time onward, Alan looked on his
cousin with a new admiration which her beauty and her attempts to
win his liking could never have brought.
The girls entered into their work heartily, charmed by the novelty
of their experiment. It was an unknown sensation to them to feel
sure that some one was eagerly listening for their step in the
outer room, to see the dull, plain face before them brighten with
a new life, as they came through the door. For the first few
weeks, they begged to be allowed to prolong the half-hour; but the
doctor, mindful of the fate of "Pilgrim's Progress," and knowing
that a reaction would probably come, checked their zeal, and only
encouraged their shorter visits. How much good they did to their
young patient, they never knew. The healthy, out-of-door
atmosphere which they brought in, their scraps of news, and their
gay chatter did as much to brighten the rest of the long, lonely
days, as the one or two pictures they brought did towards
beautifying the plain, white walls of the little room where
Bridget was learning her lesson of patience. Still less did they
realize how much they themselves were gaining from the quiet half-
hour in the corner of the great hospital. The little self-
sacrifice, the interest in this girl so far removed from their
usual world, their girlish desire to gain her liking, and the
womanly tact which was needed to win her from her rough shyness,
all these had their influence on their young maidenhood, an
influence which lasted far on through their lives.
And by degrees their interest widened. At first they had shrunk
from the suffering around them, dreading and almost fearing to
look on its outward signs. But as they became more accustomed to
the place and its associations, they no longer hurried along the
corridors, with their eyes fixed on the ground; but glanced in,
now and again, through some open door, to see the long lines of
little beds and the white-capped nurses moving quietly about the
room, or sewing cosily by the sunny window. Winter was not half
over before the girls used to turn aside, now to spend a few
moments among the forlorn midgets in the children's ward, then to
pass slowly along through the accident ward, giving a pleasant
word or two in exchange for the smiles that never failed to greet
their coming. Each one of them had her own particular circle of
friends whom she gravely discussed with the doctor, learning much
of the history and needs of these fellow-beings, for whom, until
lately, they had thought and cared so little. Molly and Jessie
devoted themselves to the little girls, Polly lavished all her
attentions on three or four small boys, while the others preferred
the older patients. But all this was only incidental, and the
girls considered Bridget as their especial property, the younger
ones regarding her as a superior sort of toy, to take the place of
the dolls which they had cast aside.
However, Katharine, who was older and more mature than the others,
had come to understand Bridget and to be friends with her, before
any of the others. At first she could feel nothing but repugnance
for this uncultivated, unwholesome-looking girl, a repugnance
which she struggled hard to conceal; but, little by little, as she
talked to her, she was won by her quiet endurance and courage. At
length, one day, Katharine coaxed the girl's story from her, how
she was left an orphan with younger children to care for; how she
had fallen and hurt her back; how she had strained it with
overwork, when it was still weak; how she had struggled to keep
on, until the doctor had brought her where she was; and how she
must hurry to get well, in order to earn money to pay the
neighbors for caring for the little children. It was a homely tale
and simply told; but when it was ended, Katharine was surprised to
find her eyes full of tears, as she bent over and touched her lips
to the girl's forehead. "I am glad you told me this, Bridget," she
said. "Now we can talk about it together, and it will make us
better friends."
And Bridget answered gratefully, as she looked up into the clear
eyes above her own,--"Thank you, miss. It's nice to have a body
know all about it. Somehow it helps along."
Three weeks later, as Katharine went into the room and dropped two
or three scarlet carnations on the girl's idle hand, she was
saluted with exciting news.
"A letter from home, to-day, Miss, and somebody has sent money
enough to pay the children's board for ever and ever so long; and
they don't know at all who it is. Isn't it wonderful!"
Not so wonderful, perhaps, as it appeared to the simple girl. No
one but Katharine and her parents ever saw the letter that went
hurrying westward to remind her father that Christmas was coming,
and to tell him in what way she would prefer to take her present.
The secret was kept, and no thanks were ever spoken; but Katharine
cared for none. It was enough to watch the girl's happy content,
now that her one anxiety was removed. Mrs. Hapgood, alone, had a
suspicion, when Molly told her of the affair; but she wisely asked
no questions, and in silence rejoiced over the broader sympathy
her niece was daily gaining.
"How queer it is, the way things are divided up!" Katharine said
to Molly, one day when they were out driving.
It was a clear, cold December day, and Cob trotted briskly over
the frozen ground, as if he too, as well as the girls themselves,
were enjoying the air and motion.
"What is divided up?" asked Molly vaguely, rousing herself from a
half-formed plan for Alan's Christmas present.
"Oh, everything,--at least, everything isn't divided," returned
Katharine a little incoherently. "Some of us have so much more fun
out of things than other people do. There's us; and then there's
Bridget and that little pet of Polly's, Dicky what's-his-name. You
know the one I mean. And then, just in our set, there's ever so
much difference. Jessie and I have everything we want, and Jean
has to pinch and scrimp; Jean is as strong as a bear, and Alan
can't do anything at all, without being laid up to pay for it;
Polly wails for a family of young brothers, and Jean has more of
them to take care of than the old woman that lived in a shoe. Now
what's the reason things are so mixed up, I'd like to know."
"I can't see why myself," said Molly, tucking in the robe about
herself and her cousin. "Maybe, if we knew all about it, they
aren't as mixed up as they seem."
"Yes, they are," Katharine insisted. "If they weren't, some people
wouldn't have everything, and some go without, as they do. I don't
suppose there is much of anything in the world I couldn't do, if I
wanted to, and tried hard enough for it; but everybody isn't so."
"I have sort of an idea," answered Molly profoundly, "that most
everybody can get what she wants, if she is willing to work and
wait long enough. It's only a question of what you want."
CHAPTER X.
POLLY'S POEM.
"Molly, don't you want to come and take a walk with me?" asked
Polly, appearing in the door one Saturday morning.
Molly sprang up and tossed her book down on the table.
"Yes, indeed I do. It's too pleasant to stay in the house such a
day as this. I'll go and call the others."
"But I don't want the others, at least, not this morning," said
Polly mysteriously. "I want you all to myself, for I've something
to tell you, to show you.". Polly blushed and stammered a little.
"What is it, Poll?" asked Molly curiously.
"Oh, nothing much; at least, I'll tell you by and by. Go and get
your hat, and come on."
"The Bridget Society" as Alan disrespectfully called it, had been
in operation for about two weeks now; but though it had proved an
absorbing subject to the girls, yet it took very little of their
time, and left them nearly as free as ever for their usual
occupations. Their common interest in the one work, however, had
bound the six girls even more closely together than before, until
they depended on one another's help and sympathy, in any and every
question that arose.
It was a clear, bracing day, so cold that the white frost was
still glittering on the grass-blades in the more sheltered
corners, so clear that the bare, rough ledges of the western
mountain looked so near that one could toss a stone up to the pile
of broken rocks which marked the line of their bases; while far
across the river valley, the sun lay warm upon the roofs and
towers of the town nestling on the hillside, and touched with a
golden light the tall, slender spire of the little church. The
girls walked briskly away through the town and out towards the
river, a mile away. Polly appeared to be unusually excited,
whether by the crisp air or by her new winter coat, Molly was at a
loss to decide. It was a fine day, surely; but the more Molly
studied the long dark-blue coat trimmed with chinchilla, and the
saucy little blue cap edged with the same soft fur, and cocked on
the back of Polly's curls, she came to the conclusion that Polly's
spirits were affected by her becoming suit. That being the case,
it was plainly her duty to remove Polly's worldly pride.
"Do try to walk like a civilized being, Polly!" she exclaimed, as
her friend suddenly pounced into the midst of a flock of hens that
were pluming themselves in a sunny fence-corner. "People will
think you're crazy, if you act so."
"Well, what if they do?" said Polly, laughing. "I don't care what
they think, I wanted to astonish those hens. Shoo!" And she
charged upon them again, brandishing a dry stick which she had
picked up by the roadside.
In spite of herself Molly laughed as she clutched her friend
firmly by the elbow and dragged her onward, out of temptation's
way.
"You'll have the jailer and the fire department out after you,"
she said, as she guided Polly's erring footsteps back into the
concrete path of virtue. "Do come along! Besides, you had
something to tell me."
Polly's face grew suddenly grave, and the hot blood rushed to her
cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was trembling with suppressed
excitement.
"Wait till we get out on the bridge, Molly," she begged. "We'll be
all alone there."
So it wasn't the new coat, after all. Molly's brow cleared.
"How queer you are, Polly!" she said. "I can't stand it to wait, I
am so wild to know. Come on, let's have a race to the bridge,
then."
"But you just said I mustn't run," protested Polly, hanging back.
"Not after hens, when the owner is looking on," answered Molly;
"but it's our own affair, if we want to run a race. Come on."
She threw the last word back over her shoulder as she went darting
away, followed by Polly who soon passed her, laughing and
breathless. In the middle of the long, white bridge she stopped
and looked about her, struck by the beauty of the familiar scene
around, the soft hills at the north, the shining, river as it
wound along through the russet meadow grass, and cut its way
between the southern mountains, over which slowly flitted the
clouds above. A few belated crows rose and sank down again over
the deserted corn-fields, while, from the red house on the river
bank, the great black dog barked an answer to their hoarse cries.
No other living thing was in sight as Molly joined her friend, and
they stood leaning against the iron rail, with their backs turned
to the cutting wind that came down upon them from the northern
hills.
"Now, Polly." And Molly paused expectantly.
From rosy red, Polly's face grew very white, and her breath came
short and hurried. She hesitated for an instant, then plunged her
mittened hand into her coat pocket, and pulled out a dingy sheet
of paper whose folds, worn till they were transparent, showed the
marks of long service. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out,
tearing it a little, in her excitement. Then she turned to Molly.
"Now, Molly Hapgood," she said solemnly; "will you promise never
to tell, if I tell you something that there doesn't anybody else
know, that I've never even shown to mamma?"
"Go on, Polly!" urged her friend impatiently, trying to steal a
glance at the worn-out sheet, which was covered with Polly's
irregular, childish writing. But Polly edged cautiously away.
"Now remember," she said again; "you're the only single soul in
the world that knows this, Molly; and I am telling you my secret
because I know you love me. I've--" there was a catch in her
breath--"I've written a poem!"
"Really!" And Molly's eyes grew round with astonishment and
respectful awe.
"Yes," Polly went on more calmly, now the great secret was out; "I
knew I could, and it was just as easy as could be."
"How did you ever know how?" inquired Molly, with a vague idea
that she had never before appreciated this gifted friend.
"I didn't know how, at first," answered Polly, kindly exposing her
methods of work to her friend's gaze. "I just knew that there
ought to be some rhymes, and then I must say something or other to
fill up the lines. One Sunday in church I read lots of hymns,--
Aunt Jane wasn't there, you know,--and then I went to work."
"Are you going to have it printed?" asked Molly.
"Not yet," said Polly. "I thought at first I would send it to the
_News_, but I've a better plan. I'm going to copy it all out,
and write my name on it and my age and how I came to write it, and
put it away. After I'm dead and famous, somebody will find it, and
it will be printed. Then people will make a fuss over it and call
me a child prodigy and all sorts of nice things."
"But what's the use?" queried Molly. "When you're all nicely dead
and buried, it can't do you any good."
"But just think how proud my children and grandchildren will be!"
exclaimed Polly enthusiastically.
"Maybe you won't have any," suggested Molly sceptically. "People
that write are generally old maids, unless they are men."
Polly's face fell. Here was a flaw in her plans.
"Well, go on," said Molly. "Aren't you going to read it?"
Polly looked at the paper in her hand, cleared her throat
nervously, drew a long breath, and cleared her throat again.
"What's the matter?" asked Molly unsympathetically. She had never
written a poem, and had no idea of the mingled fear and pride that
were waging war in Polly's mind. She spoke as the calm critic who
waits to sit in judgment.
"I'm just going to begin now," said Polly faintly. Then, nerving
herself to the task, she read aloud,--
"The children went chestnutting once,
Out in the woods to stay all day,
There's Maude and Sue and James and Kate,
All there, for there's no school to-day."
Polly stopped to catch breath.
"Where'd you get your names?" inquired Molly critically.
Polly looked up with a startled air.
"Why, out of my head, of course."
"Oh, did you?" Molly's tone was not reassuring. "Go on," she
added.
"Maybe you'll like the next verse better," faltered Polly.
"The good, kind mothers pack the lunch
Of bread and butter, meat and cake,
So off they start at ten o'clock,
For it is hot when it is late."
This time, Polly found her friend looking at her, with a scornful
curl to her lips.
"I thought you said it was a poem," she said, with cutting
emphasis; "but it sounds just exactly like a bill of fare."
This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire
among dead twigs.
"Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me!
I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live."
As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool
and collected.
"Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more
able to write a poem than Job is."
"What do you mean?" demanded Polly, facing her friend with
gleaming eyes and frowning brow.
"What do I mean!" echoed Molly mercilessly, "I mean just this:
your old poem isn't any poem at all. It doesn't rhyme more than
half way, and there's no more poetry about it than there is about
one of your freckles. Poetry is all about spring and clouds and
butterflies, or else death or--" Molly paused for an idea. Not
finding it, she hastily concluded, "Besides, I've heard something
just like that before."
Polly choked down her rising sobs.
"Very well," she said, through her clenched teeth. "This is all I
want of you, Molly Hapgood."
Deliberately she pulled off her mittens and put them into her
pocket; then, with shaking hands and with her face drawn as if in
pain, but with her eyes steadily fixed on Molly's face, she slowly
tore the paper into long, narrow strips, gathered the strips
together and tore them into tiny squares, and defiantly threw them
away over the side of the bridge into the swift blue stream below.
But even before the first floating square had touched the surface
of the water, the reaction had set in, and Polly could have cried
for the loss of her first and only poem. For a moment, she gazed
after the white bits drifting away from her; then, biting her lip
to steady it and struggling to keep back the tears, she turned on
her heel, without a word, and walked away towards home, leaving
Molly to follow or not, as she chose.
The tears came fast now, as she hurried on, avoiding the main
streets as best she could. No one was in sight when she reached
the house, so she could run up the stairs unnoticed, and throw
herself down across the foot of the bed for a long, hearty cry.
She had hoped so much from Molly's sympathy! But, after all, now
the opportunity had come, the tears were not so ready as they had
been, and she did not feel quite so much as if the world had
abused her, as she did when she was standing on the bridge,
watching the white dots on the river below. At least, no great
harm was done, for she remembered the whole poem and could easily
write it out again. As this thought came to her, she sprang up
once more, seized a pencil and a bit of paper and rewrote the
words which had caused her so much joy and so much pain. She was
still sitting with her forehead resting on her clasped hands,
reading the verses over and over and dreaming of the future day
when fame should come to her, when she heard her mother's voice
outside.
"Polly! Polly! are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here," answered Polly, moving across the room to open
the door, with a secret hope that her mother would see that she
had been crying, and ask the reason of her tears.
But Mrs. Adams was too intent on the matter in hand to give more
than a passing glance at her daughter.
"Polly, Aunt Jane wants you to run down to Mrs. Hapgood's and ask
her if she can't take in some ministers next week, over the
convention. She would like her to take four, if she can."
"Oh dear!" grumbled Polly. "I do wish Aunt Jane would go on her
own old errands, and not keep me running all over town for her."
"Polly dear," Mrs. Adams's tone was very gentle; "Polly, aren't
you forgetting yourself a little?"
"No, I'm not," returned Polly rebelliously. "I hate Aunt Jane."
"Polly!"
This time there was no mistaking her mother's meaning. After an
instant, she added,--
"I wish you to go at once, my daughter, and to go pleasantly. Aunt
Jane is a good, kind aunt to you." Polly raised her eyebrows, but
dared not speak; "and I am sorry you are so ungrateful as not to
be willing to do this little errand for her."
Polly turned away and obediently started on her errand, but as she
went down the stairs, her mother heard her murmuring to herself
words that were not altogether complimentary to Aunt Jane and the
coming ministers.
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