THE BOARDERS STAY, AND THE OLIVERS GO.
Dr. George found Mrs. Oliver too ill to be anything but reasonable.
After a long talk about her own condition and Polly's future, she gave
a somewhat tearful assent to all his plans for their welfare, and
agreed to make the change when a suitable tenant was found for the
house.
So Polly eased the anxiety that gnawed at her heart by incredible
energy in the direction of house-cleaning; superintending all sorts of
scrubbings, polishings, and renovating of carpets with the aid of an
extra Chinaman, who was fresh from his native rice-fields and stupid
enough to occupy any one's mind to the exclusion of other matters.
Each boarder in turn was asked to make a trip to the country on a
certain day, and on his return found his room in spotless order; while
all this time the tired mother lay quietly in her bed, knowing little
or nothing of her daughter's superhuman efforts to be "good." But a
month of rest worked wonders, and Mrs. Oliver finally became so like
her usual delicate but energetic self that Polly almost forgot her
fears, although she remitted none of her nursing and fond but rigid
discipline.
At length something happened; and one glorious Saturday morning in
October, Polly saddled Blanquita, the white mare which Bell Winship had
left in Polly's care during her European trip, and galloped over to the
Nobles' ranch in a breathless state of excitement.
Blanquita was happy too, for Polly had a light hand on the rein and a
light seat in the saddle. She knew there would be a long rest at the
journey's end, and that, too, under a particularly shady pepper-tree;
so both horse and rider were in a golden humor as they loped over the
dusty road, the blue Pacific on the one hand, and the brown hills,
thirsty for rain, on the other.
Polly tied Blanquita to the pepper-tree, caught her habit in one hand,
and ran up the walnut-tree avenue to the Nobles' house. There was no
one in; but that was nothing unusual, since a house is chiefly useful
for sleeping purposes in that lovely climate. No one on the verandas,
no one in the hammocks; after seeking for some little time she came
upon Margery and her mother at work in their orange-tree sitting-room,
Mrs. Noble with her mending-basket, Margery painting as usual.
The orange-tree sitting-room was merely a platform built under the
trees, which in the season of blossoms shed a heavy fragrance in the
warm air, and later on hung their branches of golden fruit almost into
your very lap.
"Here you are!" cried Polly, plunging through the trees as she caught
sight of Margery's pink dress. "You have n't any hats to swing, so
please give three rousing cheers! The house is rented and a lease
signed for a year!"
"That is good news, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Noble, laying down her
needle. "And who is the tenant?"
"Whom do you suppose? Mrs. Chadwick herself! She has been getting on
very nicely with the housekeeping (part of the credit belongs to me,
but no one would ever believe it), and the boarders have been gradually
weaned from mamma and accustomed to the new order of things, so they
are tolerably content. Ah Foy also has agreed to stay, and that makes
matters still more serene, since he is the best cook in Santa Barbara.
Mrs. Chadwick will pay eighty-five dollars a month. Dr. George thinks
we ought to get more, but mamma is so glad to have somebody whom she
knows, and so relieved to feel that there will be no general breaking
up of the 'sweet, sweet home,' that she is glad to accept the
eighty-five dollars; and I am sure that we can live in modest penury on
that sum. Of course Mrs. Chadwick may weary in well-doing; or she may
die; or she may even get married,--though that's very unlikely, unless
one of the boarders can't pay his board and wants to make it up to her
in some way. Heigho! I feel like a princess, like a capitalist, like
a gilded society lady!" sighed Polly, fanning herself with her hat.
"And now you and your mother will come to us for a week or two, as you
promised, won't you?" asked Mrs. Noble. "That will give you time to
make your preparations comfortably."
Polly took a note from her pocket and handed it to Mrs. Noble: "Mrs.
Oliver presents her compliments to Mrs. Noble, and says in this letter
that we accept with pleasure Mrs. Noble's kind invitation to visit her.
Said letter was not to be delivered, in case Mrs. Noble omitted to
renew the invitation; but as all is right, I don't mind announcing that
we are coming the day after to-morrow."
"Oh, Polly, Polly! How am I ever to live without you!" sighed Margery.
"First Elsie, then Bell, now you!"
"Live for your Art with a big A, Peggy, but it's not forever. By and
by, when you are a successful artist and I am a successful something,
in short, when we are both 'careering,' which is my verb to express
earning one's living by the exercise of some splendid talent, we will
'career' together in some great metropolis. Our mothers shall dress in
Lyons velvet and point-lace. Their delicate fingers, no longer sullied
by the vulgar dishcloth and duster, shall glitter with priceless gems,
while you and I, the humble authors of their greatness, will heap dimes
on dimes until we satisfy ambition."
Mrs. Noble smiled. "I hope your 'career,' as you call it, will be one
in which imagination will be of use, Polly."
"I don't really imagine all the imaginations you imagine I imagine,"
said Polly soberly, as she gave Mrs. Noble's hand an affectionate
squeeze. "A good deal of it is 'whistling to keep my courage up.' But
everything looks hopeful just now. Mamma is so much better, everybody
is so kind, and do you know, I don't loathe the boarders half so much
since we have rented them with the house?
"They grow in beauty side by side,
They fill our home with glee.
"Now that I can look upon them as personal property, part of our goods
and chattels, they have ceased to be disagreeable. Even Mr.
Greenwood--you remember him, Margery?"
"The fat old man who calls you sprightly?"
"The very same; but he has done worse since that. To be called
sprightly is bad enough, but yesterday he said that he shouldn't be
surprised _if I married well--in--course--of--time_!"
Nothing but italics would convey the biting sarcasm of Polly's
inflections, and no capitals in a printer's case could picture her
flashing eyes, or the vigor with which she prodded the earth with her
riding-whip.
"I agree with him, that it is not impossible," said Mrs. Noble
teasingly, after a moment of silence.
"Now, dearest aunty Meg, don't take sides with that odious man! If, in
the distant years, you ever see me on the point of marrying well,
simply mention Mr. Greenwood's name to me, and I 'll draw back even if
I am walking up the middle aisle with an ivory prayer-book in my hand!"
"Just to spite Mr. Greenwood; that would be sensible," said Margery.
"You could n't be so calm if you had to sit at the same table with him
day after day. He belongs at the second table by--by every law of his
nature! But, as I was saying, now that we have rented him to Mrs.
Chadwick with the rest of the furniture, and will have a percentage on
him just as we do on the piano which is far more valuable, I have been
able to look at him pleasantly."
"You ought to be glad that the boarders like you," said Margery
reprovingly.
"They don't, as a rule; only the horrors and the elderly gentlemen
approve of me. But good-by for to-day, aunty Meg. Come to the gate,
Peggy dear!"
The two friends walked through the orange-grove, their arms wound about
each other, girl-fashion. They were silent, for each was sorry to lose
the other, and a remembrance of the dear old times, the unbroken
circle, the peaceful schooldays and merry vacations, stole into their
young hearts, together with visions of the unknown future.
As Polly untied Blanquita and gave a heroic cinch to the saddle, she
gave a last searching look at Margery, and said finally, "Peggy dear, I
am very sure you are blue this morning; tell your faithful old
Pollykins all about it."
One word was enough for Margery in her present mood, and she burst into
tears on Polly's shoulder.
"Is it Edgar again?" whispered Polly.
"Yes," she sobbed. "Father has given him three months more to stay in
the university, and unless he does better he is to come home and live
on the cattle-ranch. Mother is heart-broken over it; for you know,
Polly, that Edgar will never endure such a life; and yet, dearly as he
loves books, he is n't doing well with his studies. The president has
written father that he is very indolent this term and often absent from
recitations; and one of the Santa Barbara boys, a senior, writes Philip
that he is not choosing good friends, nor taking any rank in his class.
Mother has written him such a letter this morning! If he can read it
without turning his back upon his temptations, whatever they may he, I
shall never have any pride in him again; and oh, Polly, I have been so
proud of him, my brilliant, handsome, charming brother!"
"Poor Edgar! I can't believe it is anything that will last. He is so
bright and lovable; every one thought he would take the highest honors.
Why, Margery, he is, or was, the most ambitious boy I ever knew, and
surely, surely he cannot have changed altogether! Surely he will come
to himself when he knows he may have to leave college unless he does
his best. I 'm so sorry, dear old Peggy! It seems heartless that my
brighter times should begin just when you are in trouble. Perhaps
mamma and I can do something for Edgar; we will try, you may lie sure.
Good-by, dearest; I shall see you again very soon."
Ten days later, Polly stood on the deck of the Orizaba just at dusk,
looking back on lovely Santa Barbara as it lay in the lap of the
foothills freshened by the first rains. The dull, red-tiled roofs of
the old Spanish adobes gleamed through the green of the pepper-trees,
the tips of the tall, straggling blue-gums stood out sharply against
the sky, and the twin towers of the old Mission rose in dazzling
whiteness above a wilderness of verdure. The friendly faces on the
wharf first merged themselves into a blurred mass of moving atoms, then
sank into nothingness.
Polly glanced into her stateroom. Mrs. Oliver was a good sailor, and
was lying snug and warm under her blankets. So Polly took a camp-chair
just outside the door, wrapped herself in her fur cape, crowded her
tam-o'-shanter tightly on, and sat there alone as the sunset glow paled
in the western sky and darkness fell upon the face of the deep.
The mesa faded from sight; and then the lighthouse, where she had
passed so many happy hours in her childhood. The bright disk of flame
shone clear and steady across the quiet ocean, seeming to say, _Let
your light so shine! Let your light so shine! Good luck, Polly! Keep
your own lamp filled and trimmed, like a wise little virgin!_ And her
heart answered, "Good-by, dear light! I am leaving my little-girl days
on the shore with you, and I am out on the open sea of life. I shall
know that you are shining, though I cannot see you. Good-by! Shine
on, dear light! I am going to seek my fortune!"