BENEDICTA’S OPPORTUNITY
It was not until Polly returned from taking her last guests to the
Overlook train that she inquired of Esther Tenniel about the note with
which David had entrusted her.
At the start the little girl smiled into Polly’s eyes in happy
forgetfulness of her failure in duty until suddenly memory asserted
itself. Then she hid her face in her little hands and broke into a
wailing cry.
“Oh, Miss Dudley, I forgot! I forgot! I never did think of it till this
minute! I told that sweet young man I would give it to you, and now I
don’t know where it is. Oh, Miss Dudley!”
“Hush, dear,” said Polly soothingly. “It isn’t of the least
consequence. I think it is not lost, and if it is, I shall not shed a
single tear. Don’t cry another bit.”
The child continued to sob, while Polly, with her usual practicality,
went on:--
“You were playing with your paper dolls that morning, weren’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Dudley--the beautiful ones--that the Butterfly Lady gave us.”
Polly went to the cupboard where they were kept and looked through the
envelopes. The note was not among the dolls.
“Do you remember what you wore that day?”
Esther reflected. “I think I had on my blue gingham and the white
pinafore that goes with it.”
Polly examined Esther’s wardrobe, but did not see the white “pinafore.”
Then she went to the big laundry hamper and looked over the clothes.
The missing apron soon was in her hands, and down in the depths of the
little pocket was the note.
Esther smiled wanly when she saw it, and began to cry.
“I want to tell you a secret,” said Polly. “You’ll promise not to
repeat it to anybody?” Then said Polly, “I am glad you forgot! I would
a great deal rather have the note now than when it was given you.”
Esther looked at her doubtingly. “Glad?” she queried.
“Yes, really and truly glad,” laughed Polly. “Now go and play and
forget all about it.”
“And I needn’t feel sorry?” questioned the little girl.
“No, you are to be glad, too.”
Esther smiled and flung her arms about Polly’s neck, whispering, “You
are the nicest lady that ever was!”
Alone with the note, Polly did not open it at once. She sat still with
her own thoughts. Finally she unfolded the paper, and read:--
DEAR POLLY: I must see you alone, and somebody is always tagging
you round. Please arrange your work so as to meet me up in the
grove this evening. I shall be there directly after tea.
Sincerely
DAVID
Polly looked away to the far distant hills--wondering about David. What
did he come for? What had he to say to her? Would it have been better
if she had let him talk with her, as he wished--as Nita had suggested?
No, she could not! She knew well enough what it would have led to. She
shook her head, and a shiver ran over her--anything but _that_! Yes,
she had done right.
Rosalind Ferne improved daily, and the gain was not microscopic. Even
Benedicta spoke of it.
“That Ferne kid’s comin’ up,” she said.
“Isn’t she!” exulted Polly.
“She’ll never walk,” the housekeeper went on, “it’s against nature; but
she’ll get stronger and healthier. She won’t go through life so puny.”
“Or crooked,” added Polly.
“I do’ know!” Benedicta shook her head doubtfully. “I s’pose I ought
not to go in opposition to your father, but it ain’t reasonable to
think she will walk and be straight after all these years of idleness.”
“She will be straight and she will walk,” Polly asserted smilingly.
“Father knows what he says. He never makes a statement that he is not
able to back up with results.”
“Well”--Benedicta drew a long, doubtful breath--“if she ever
should--but I don’t b’lieve she will!--it will be a real authentic
miracle.”
“It will seem so,” agreed Polly, “yet it is just such things that
father is doing every day.”
The housekeeper looked at her with unbelieving eyes. “Do you mean that
your father has ever cured anybody that was like that little Ferne kid?”
“A good many of them. You know about Doodles?”
“No. What?”
“When he was three or four years old he had a fall and could never walk
a step afterwards until father operated upon him some six years ago.”
“Well, that’s amazin’ly marvelous, of course; but they’ve taken that
kid to piles of doctors, and every one of ’em said she couldn’t be
cured.”
“Yes,” smiled Polly. “And Doodles was examined by a famous New York
surgeon just before father saw him; his verdict was that the case was
utterly hopeless.”
“He did! Sinners and snobs! Why in the universe don’t you do some
braggin’? Bet I would, if it was my father.”
The girl laughed. “I believe in him thoroughly,” she said. “That’s
better than braggardism.”
“My! but that’s a lovely word!” cried Benedicta. “Say it again, please;
I never heard it.”
Polly repeated it. “When I was a child,” she laughed, “I used to say
‘superbondonjical.’ Maybe that would suit you.”
“Fine! What does it mean?”
“I used it for anything that especially pleased me,” Polly replied.
“All right,” returned Benedicta. “I think, then, that you are
superbondonjical.”
Clementina came to see what they were laughing at, and Polly took the
opportunity to escape into the ward.
She found Rosalind crying softly because a little toy dog which she had
wound up refused to bark.
Polly looked it over. “It is out of order,” she concluded. “That is the
reason it doesn’t work.”
Rosalind was thoughtful.
“Daddy doesn’t work on Sunday,” she said. “Is he out of order?”
Polly was about to explain, when the little one wailed out, “I want my
daddy! I want to see my daddy!” It was the first time she had shown any
sign of homesickness.
For a moment Polly was at a loss for comforting words. She well knew
that it would be a hard matter to persuade Mr. Wheatley to come up to
the house. She was spared from speaking, however, for Clementina and
Benedicta walked in.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the latter.
“I want--my daddy!--I want--my--dad-dy!” sobbed Rosalind.
“You poor little kid!” crooned Benedicta. And gently pushing Polly
aside she sat on the edge of the bed and held the child close. “Poor
little kid!”
The sobbing lessened, but still kept on.
“Now, see here!” began Benedicta in a coaxing tone, “you just be
a good girl and stop crying, and pretty soon we’ll have a regular
superbondonjical time.”
“I don’t know what kind of a time that is--I guess I never had one.”
The mite was interested at once.
“Oh, it’s lovely, amazin’ly lovely, a superbondonjical time is!” The
voice was inspiring.
Rosalind smiled. “Will we have it now?” she asked.
“Just as soon as I can get it ready; I guess about the time you’ll sit
up to your little table in your little chair.”
This was a wonderfully satisfying answer, and Rosalind closed her eyes
with a breath of content. She was constantly looking forward to ten
o’clock in the morning and six o’clock in the afternoon, those being
the hours when she was taken up for a short time and allowed to sit in
the small chair that “daddy” had made for her and to eat her luncheon
or supper upon the pretty table which Grandpa Wheatley had fashioned to
match the chair.
Benedicta held her a moment longer and then laid her tenderly upon her
pillow.
The child opened her eyes and gazed up into the kind, homely face.
“You look like daddy,” she said thoughtfully.
The housekeeper drew back with a start. “I--I must go see to--”
Nobody found out just what she was going to “see to,” for she was gone.
Soon a sweet, spicy odor floated into the ward, which caused the little
folks to sniff delightedly and to wonder among themselves what was in
store for them.
It was not long before Benedicta and the “superbondonjical” luncheon
came in. On the tray were freshly baked oatmeal macaroons, little cooky
girls with wide skirts, and glasses of creamy milk.
Rosalind smiled up at the housekeeper, and said again, “You do look
like daddy!”
This time, however, Benedicta did not run away. Instead, she responded,
“Do I?” and went on to tell of a little girl that was lost and who was
finally restored to her friends because of her likeness to one of her
sisters.
Polly, musing over this, wondered what relation Benedicta bore to the
Wheatley family. Perhaps in time the truth would come out. It did
come--and sooner than she had expected.
She awoke early one morning and went downstairs to find Benedicta in
the midst of a big baking.
“Teeters and tongs!” ejaculated the housekeeper, “what in the universe
are you up at five o’clock for? I calculated on havin’ the kitchen to
myself for two hours longer.” She stood and viewed Polly dejectedly.
The girl laughed. “I’m going right away,” she said. “I won’t hinder you
a minute. If I can help,” she added, “I’ll stay.”
Benedicta shook her head, as Polly turned to the piazza door. “Hold
on!” she called in a hushed tone: “I might as well stop now and tell
you. The cookies are baked, the bread’s goin’ all right, and the pies
are ready--wait a minute and I’ll put the bread in.” She came from
the oven, laid her holder on the only empty corner of the table, and
glanced around. “Huh,” she muttered, “looks as if the Devil was havin’
an auction!” Then she sat down.
“I s’pose you know all about Sereno Wheatley and me.”
“No,” answered Polly.
Benedicta looked at her with her eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to
say, Miss Polly, that you haven’t asked what anybody in town could
communicate?”
“I have made no inquiries,” Polly replied. “I thought if there was
anything that you wished me to know you would tell me.”
“Well, if you aren’t the nicest! The idea of your not askin’! I s’posed
you knew the whole story from A to Z. Dear me, I must tell it quick,
for I’ve got lots of bakin’ to do before breakfast.
“Sereno Wheatley is my half-brother. My mother married twice. Sereno
was Wheatley’s child and I was a Clapperton. He’s considerable older
’n I am, but we were always chummy, some way--we liked each other, or
did till he got married. We all s’posed he was goin’ to marry Isabel
Lockwood, the prettiest girl in town; but if he didn’t go to Boston an’
get acquainted with Lily Starr, an’ before we knew anything about it he
brought her home--married! We never liked her, not one of us. My father
wouldn’t have ’em at home, so off they went, and I guess they had a
hard time gettin’ along. She was pretty enough, but she’d been brought
up different from what he had, and I s’pose I kept comparin’ her with
Isabel Lockwood--Isabel was my chum. She died young. Lily was called
a beauty, but she wasn’t a circumstance to Isabel. Anyway, she was a
Democrat! That was enough for my father. But I d’n’ know. It looks
different now from what it did then. I--I guess it’s partly that little
Ferne kid an’ partly you, Miss Polly--anyway, I feel somehow different.
“An’ that makes me think of one thing more I’ve got to tell you. I
didn’t lie when I broke your car and said I ran into my Miss Flora
and Mr. Aimé. I did, but I didn’t make any remarks about what started
my doin’ it. Oscarlucy was takin’ Rosalind to ride in her little
cart--she was always peregrinatin’ round with that kid--and I turned
the corner an’ come on them so sudden, I almost run ’em down! I was
’bout scared to death, and then I swung out so far I just scooted into
my other folks! That’s the truth and every mite I’ve got to confess.
Well, I heard las’ night that his wife’s sick--it’s a fever--and they
can’t get a soul to come an’ help. So there they are, Sereno and that
ten-year-old Oscarlucy. If she’s like most children she’s worse ’n
nobody, an’ when it comes to nursin’, a man ain’t in it, no matter
how good he is. So I’ve got to go! I said to myself ’t I couldn’t, ’t
my place was here with you and the kids. And I went to bed. But then
I got to thinkin’ till I ’most jumped up an’ started off. You see,
I--well, I’d been prayin’ the Lord to give me an opportunity to kind o’
make up with Sereno, for I couldn’t just go walkin’ in there after all
these years and say, ‘Brother Sereno and Sister Lily, I’ve come to be
reconciled’! I couldn’t fire off such a thing at ’em, could I? Well,
when it come to me that here was the opportunity I’d been prayin’ for,
I made up my mind I’d better get down there as quick as I could. But I
wasn’t goin’ to leave you in the lurch! So I set my alarm-clock and
got up at half-past three--”
“Why, Benedicta,” broke in Polly, “you shouldn’t have thought of me! I
can cook--a little, and so can Lilith. We’ll get along all right.”
“Then you don’t blame me for going?” The housekeeper eyed the girl
keenly.
“Blame you!” Polly took the reddened hands in her own. “It is the very
thing I want you to do. I am proud of you to know that you are ready to
go--just when you are needed.”
Benedicta shook her head slowly. “Thank you, Miss Polly. I’m goin’
sure, though”--a flush stole over her face--“I’d rather be horsewhipped
than to do it! Las’ night, at first, I almost hoped you wouldn’t let me
off!”
“I know how you feel,” returned Polly; “but when it is over with, you
wouldn’t have missed it for a farm. You’ll be so glad. It will pay--if
only for that.”
Benedicta looked at Polly through a mist of tears. “It’s just you and
that little Ferne kid that’s done it,” she said. “You are so good!”
“Nonsense! I’m not good at all!”
Benedicta smiled as a tear ran down her cheek.
“I do hope, Miss Polly, that I’ll get to heaven before you do--I shall
be amazin’ly disappointed if I don’t--for I’m countin’ on bein’ there
when your crown is brought in. You’ll look so astonished, for it’ll be
full of stars--bright ones, too!--and you’ll say, ‘Oh, no, that isn’t
mine! That can’t be for me! There must be some mistake!’ Oh, I know
just what you’ll say, and it’ll be such fun to hear you say it!”