Half a Dozen Girls Part 25

That settled the question of Polly's tears, and she began to laugh hysterically, while the others joined in until the dining-room rang with their mirth.

"Well," said the doctor, as he pushed back his chair, half an hour later; "if Florence takes the prize for the best cooking, Polly ought to have the one for the best entertainment."

The guests went away early, and Polly ran upstairs to take off her best gown and slip on a comfortable dark blue wrapper. When she returned to the parlor, her mother was sitting in front of the fire, in a wide sleepy-hollow chair. She turned her head, as Polly entered the room.

"Come, dear," she said; "there's room for two here."

And Polly came.

The motherly arm around her shoulders felt very comforting to her just then; and, like a little, tired child, she cried it all out, all the weariness and mortification and sense of failure. But while the tears were still falling, she began to laugh once more.

"Oh, Jerusalem Adams!" she said; "did you ever see anything so funny as Miss Bean was about my soup?"

Her mother smiled, but before she had time to reply, Polly went on tragically,--

"But wasn't it all dreadful, mamma? Seems to me I never can look any of them in the face again, Mrs. Lang and all. And just when I thought I was going to be so smart and show off all I knew!"

If Aunt Jane had been there, she would doubtless have reminded Polly that pride must have a fall, and that this was a just reward for trying to outdo her friends. Mrs. Adams did no such thing, however. She only drew the curly head over against her shoulder and stroked it gently, as she said, with a half-laughing tenderness,--

"My poor little Polly! You tried to do more than you had strength for. But, after all, it's as true a side of life as Florence's successful dinner was; and every housekeeper must go through just such experiences, again and again. You are no more likely to fail the next time, because your dinner to-day wasn't a good one. It is only one of the unlucky days that we all must have."

"You, mamma?" And Polly raised her head in wonder.

"Yes, I've had my fair share of just such times." And Mrs. Adams laughed quietly, as she thought of similar chapters in her own housekeeping. Then she added, "But I was proud to see my little girl bear it so well, without breaking down or getting vexed at Miss Bean. That's worth a dozen elegant dinners, Polly. But now it's high time my cook was in bed and asleep, without a dream of soups or puddings or disagreeable guests who come uninvited. Some day you and I will have another dinner, and astonish the natives."

A few moments later, she followed Polly upstairs to tuck the blankets around her and cuddle her, and kiss away the few tears that lay on her cheeks. Then she went back to the parlor, where she and her husband laughed heartily and long over Polly's grand dinner party.

CHAPTER XIII.

ALAN AND POLLY HAVE A DRESS REHEARSAL.

It was still in the early days of the cooking club, and February's snows lay soft over the mountain sides, the smooth, open places throwing into bold relief the long rows of trees, which looked blue and hazy against their dazzling background. The town was snow-covered, too, and the frozen river, and wherever one went, the air was full of the gay jingle-jangle of countless sleighbells, while the streets were thronged with a motley collection of equipages, from the luxuriously upholstered double sleigh with its swaying robes and floating plumes, down to the shapeless home-made "pung" with its ragged, unlined buffalo skin snugly tucked in about the shawled and veiled grandma, who smilingly awaited her good man while he purchased the week's supply of groceries.

Such cold, clear days, such glorious sleighing were not to be resisted; and on this particular Sat.u.r.day afternoon, Katharine had driven around with Cob, to take Mrs. Adams out for an hour or two, before time for her usual call on Bridget. The day had long pa.s.sed when Job could be driven on the snow. Mrs. Adams had made one or two attempts in previous winters, but the poor old animal had toddled along so gingerly, slipping and sliding in every direction, that she had resigned herself to the inevitable, and put the old horse into winter quarters, much as she did her fan, or her lace bonnet. Such a course had its disadvantages, too, for the long time of standing in his stall stiffened up Job's venerable joints to such an extent that it took him a large share of the summer to regain the free use of his members. However, Katharine had been very generous with Cob, and Mrs. Adams had had a fair share of the sleighing. That day, though she was in the midst of writing a letter when Katharine came, the gay little sleigh and the lively mustang proved too attractive, and she had thrown aside her pen and put on her fur coat without a moment's hesitation.

Polly had gone down to the hospital that afternoon. Her cooking in the morning had been so successful that she had begged to be allowed to take a taste of it to Bridget; so, with a little basket in one hand and a carefully arranged posy in the other, she had gone away down the street, soon after lunch. Once there, she had lingered, chatting with Bridget, who was in an unusually dismal frame of mind, owing to a letter which, had come that morning, telling her that the youngest child she had left had suddenly developed a fractious turn of mind, and that her temporary guardian was "kilt entirely wid the care of her." Naturally enough, this news was preying upon Bridget, and when Polly went in, she found her resolving to leave the hospital and all the good it was doing her, and go home to see to the unmanageable infant.

For this reason, Polly had stayed for some time, soothing Bridget's anxiety and trying to distract her mind from her worries by telling her all the funny stories she could remember or invent.

By degrees Bridget's face brightened, and, charmed with her success, Polly talked on and on till the clock in the church tower near by chimed three. Then she rose in haste, surprised to find it so late.

"I don't care if 'tis three," she said to herself, as she went along the corridor; "I'll just look in on the babies now I'm here.

I haven't been near them, for an age."

As she turned in at the door of the children's ward, what was her astonishment to find Alan sitting there, quite at his ease, surrounded by half a dozen small boys who were in a high state of glee over this new playfellow.

"What! You here?" And Polly's face grew expressionless with her amazement.

"I seem to be, don't I?" responded Alan, a little shamefaced at being caught, while he carefully set down the four-year-old urchin on his knee and rose to join her, regardless of the protestations of his small hosts.

"You see," he went on, as they walked away down the corridor together; "I thought it would be a good scheme to have a full dress rehearsal of our scenes in the play, so I went to your house, bag and baggage. They told me that you weren't at home, that you'd gone on an errand to Bridget, so I followed on after you. I waited round outside for a good while; but it was so cold that I nearly froze, so I rang the bell and asked if you were here. You were such a forever-lasting time that I'd begun to think you had gone out by some other door."

"No danger of that," returned Policy, as he paused. "I'm a sn.o.b and only take the front door. But go on; what did you do then?" "I asked if you were here," the boy resumed; "and the woman said you were, and took me up into that room, for she said I could see you go past the door when you came out. I don't see what possessed her to put me in there, and I hadn't any idea of taking any notice of those babies, but somehow or other they got round me."

There was an apologetic tone to Alan's voice as he spoke the last words, which made Polly say heartily,--

"I am so glad they did, Alan. They don't often get hold of a boy in there, and they'll remember it ever and ever so long. It won't hurt you any, just for once, and it delighted them."

"I hope it did," said Alan, frankly adding, "I did feel no end silly, though, when you came out and caught me at it, playing child's nurse."

"I wonder why it is," returned Polly reflectively, as they went down the steps, "that a man always acts ashamed of doing what a woman is expected to do, day in and day out. I don't see why we shouldn't take turns and mix things up."

They walked along in silence for a little way. Alan's chin and ears were buried in his wide coatcollar, but the part of his face that showed was very sober.

"I say, Polly," lie said suddenly; "you don't know how kind of squirmy it made me feel, in there to-day, with all those little fellows, the one with the brace on his ankle, and the one with his eye tied up where they'd taken out a piece, and all the rest of them. I couldn't stand it to just sit there and stare at them, as if they were a show; that was too mean, when I couldn't do anything to help them out. What's the use of it all, any way?"

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Polly, as she tucked her mittened hand confidingly down into his, as it lay in the side pocket of his over-coat. "I felt just the same way when I began to go, last fall; but now I'm used to it, and don't mind so much."

"But what's the use, I'd like to know?" persisted Alan.

"What's the use of your having so much rheumatism in your bones?"

responded Polly, answering question with question.

"How should I know?" returned Alan. "To make me cross as a bear, and give mother something to worry about, as much as anything, I suppose."

"I don't believe that's all the reason," said Polly seriously; "but as long as these things are round, and have to be, just think how splendid it must be to be a doctor!"

In spite of himself, Alan s.h.i.+vered at the thought. The scenes of the past hour had made a strong impression on his quick, sensitive nature.

"No," he said, "I don't want to spend my whole time among such things. It would be dreadful, Poll."

"I don't think so," said Polly energetically, as she s.n.a.t.c.hed at the blue cap which a sudden gust of wind was lifting from her curls. "I don't want to be one myself, but I'm glad papa is a doctor, and I've always wished I had a brother to be one, too. I know the side of it you mean, Alan, and it is dreadful at first; but after a little, you'd get used to that, and I think there could be nothing grander than to spend all your life in mending broken bones, and cutting people to pieces to take out bad places, and helping them to grow all strong and well. I'd rather be a real good doctor than the President in the White House, and I don't believe but what I'd do more good."

While she was speaking, Alan watched her with admiration, for her eyes had grown dark and deep, and her whole face was alive with the earnestness of her words.

"You ought to have been a nurse, Poll," he said, when she had finished her outburst. "That's what makes you so nice and comfortable when I'm sick. I'd rather have you than Molly any day.

But don't let's talk about it any longer; I can't keep those poor babies out of my head. They just seem to stick there."

"Go to see them again, and perhaps they won't," suggested Polly quickly.

"I'll see about it," said Alan; "but it strikes me I had enough of it this morning to last me for one while." And he lapsed into silence once more, while Polly eyed him stealthily, trying to read his thought.

When he spoke again, it was on an entirely different subject, and with an evident effort to dismiss the matter from his mind. Polly did her best to fall in with his mood, with an instinctive feeling that, boy-fas.h.i.+on, Alan did not care to put into words all that he thought; so by the time they reached the house, they were lightly discussing all sorts of unimportant matters; the weather, the sleighing, their play, and even Job, and Alan had thrown off his momentary seriousness and become as gay as ever.

"Where did you put your war-paint and feathers?" asked Polly, as they ran. up the steps, rosy and breathless from facing the strong wind.

"My war-paint, ma'am! It's yours. I'm a civilized white man, named Smith," returned Alan, as he pulled off his coat in the hall. "I left them in a corner of the dining-room."