MISS POLLY’S PIANO
“It’s very humiliating to be in disgrace, and not allowed to have
dinner with your family,” said Molly, with a long sigh. “I hate bread
and milk, don’t you, Dulcie?”
Dulcie did not answer, but pushed away her almost untouched bowl, and
rested her elbows on the nursery table. Her face was red and swollen
with crying, and she looked the picture of woe. Molly regarded her
critically.
“You haven’t eaten anything,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be
hungry before to-morrow morning?”
Dulcie shook her head.
“I don’t care if I am,” she said, drearily. “I can’t swallow; every
time I try something chokes me.”
“Is your throat sore?” Molly inquired, with a vivid recollection of
Maud’s frequent sore throats.
“No, it isn’t sore, but there’s a lump in it. Oh, Molly, it’s awful! I
was never so unhappy before in my life.”
Molly looked very much troubled.
“Is it because Grandma wouldn’t let us go down to dinner, and says
we’re not to have any dessert for a week?” she questioned doubtfully.
“Oh, I don’t mind that so much. It’s horrid, of course, but I could
bear it if it wasn’t for other things. Grandma says I’m a disgrace to
the family, and she’s going to write Papa about it.”
“Papa won’t believe her, I know he won’t,” protested Molly. “Besides,
we can write to him too, and tell what really happened. I think you
were very brave to fight that boy when he was hurting Paul.”
“It was a terribly unladylike thing to do,” said Dulcie. “I don’t
wonder Grandma was ashamed. Young ladies don’t fight street boys, and
I’m nearly twelve. I promised Papa to take care of you all, and set a
good example. And instead of that, I got you into a horrid scrape, and
Paul too.” Suddenly Dulcie’s head went down on her arms, and she began
to cry.
Molly was at her sister’s side in a moment.
“Don’t be so unhappy, darling, please don’t,” she pleaded, with her
arms round Dulcie’s neck. “It wasn’t any more your fault than mine and
Paul’s. We really thought we were doing our duty. If Rosy had been a
stolen child, and we’d found her family, everybody would have been
delighted. I don’t believe even Grandma would have scolded then.”
“I don’t think there are any stolen children in the world,” moaned
Dulcie. “They’re just in books, and we were very silly to imagine Rosy
must be one. She wasn’t even very pretty, and she was so dreadfully
dirty. I don’t see why the people who write books want to put things in
that aren’t true.”
“There was Charlie Ross,” said Molly; “he was true.”
“He was only one, and there may never have been another. Anyway, we’ve
done something awful, and I don’t believe Aunt Julia will ever forgive
us for taking Paul to that dreadful place.”
“Here come Daisy and Maud,” exclaimed Molly, in a tone of relief, as
the sound of approaching footsteps fell upon their ears.
At the entrance of her two sisters, Dulcie lifted her head.
“What’s the matter?” she demanded tragically. “Are you punished, too?
It’s only seven o’clock.”
“Oh, no,” said Daisy, with a great effort to speak in her usual
cheerful voice. “Aunt Kate is expecting a missionary, and Grandma said
we might as well get out of the way.”
“There was ice-cream,” announced Maud, “but Daisy wouldn’t take any. It
was good, too, only Grandma wouldn’t let me have two helpings.”
“Why didn’t you take any, Daisy?” inquired Molly, her eyes wide with
astonishment.
“Oh, I just thought I wouldn’t,” returned Daisy, evasively. “It’s nice
we could come up so early, isn’t it?”
“I know what the reason was,” said Dulcie, with conviction. “It was
because we couldn’t have any, wasn’t it, Daisy?”
Daisy blushed, and looked very much embarrassed.
“Well, I couldn’t enjoy good things to eat when I knew you had nothing
but bread and milk,” she admitted, at which Molly promptly threw her
arms round her sister’s neck, and hugged her.
“I believe you’re the best girl in the world, Daisy,” Dulcie declared.
“We never should have gotten into such a scrape if you had been with
us. I knew it wasn’t right all the time, but it was such an exciting
adventure, and we never had a real adventure in our lives.”
“I don’t believe I should like an adventure,” said Maud, virtuously.
“Aunt Julia has put Paul to bed, you know. She’s sure he’s caught
some dreadful disease. She wanted to send for the doctor but Grandma
wouldn’t let her.”
“What kind of a disease is it?” Molly wanted to know.
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s something called nerves. That was it,
wasn’t it, Daisy?”
“Oh, I don’t believe Paul is going to be ill at all,” said Daisy,
reassuringly. “Grandma doesn’t think so either. Aunt Kate laughed, and
said Paul wasn’t the first boy in the family to come home with a black
eye. She was beginning to tell about something that happened when Papa
was a boy, when Grandma gave that little cough she always gives when
she wants people to stop talking, and Aunt Kate didn’t say any more.”
“Do you suppose Papa ever fought with anybody when he was a boy?”
suggested Molly, her face brightening at the delightful possibility.
“I don’t know, but we’ll ask him in our next letter. Now let’s do
something pleasant. It’s a whole hour till bedtime.”
But for once Daisy’s cheerful suggestion failed to meet with its usual
response. Neither Dulcie nor Molly felt inclined to do “anything
pleasant” that evening. They tried lotto, but before the first game was
finished Dulcie had begun to cry again.
“I don’t feel like doing anything but going to bed,” she announced,
with a sob. “My heart’s so heavy, I can’t take an interest in ordinary
things.”
“It is pretty dreadful,” agreed Maud. “Aunt Julia thinks she will have
to take Paul back to Boston. She’s afraid he’ll want to go on playing
with us, and she says we aren’t fit to associate with him. I don’t
think it’s quite fair to say all of us, when Daisy and I didn’t do a
single thing. I wish Miss Polly would sing; it’s always comforting to
hear music when you’re sad.”
“Let’s go and see Miss Polly,” exclaimed Daisy, with a sudden
inspiration. “I haven’t heard the piano all day. Perhaps she isn’t
well.”
Dulcie shook her head.
“I can’t go,” she said, mournfully. “I’ve cried so much my head aches,
and my eyes are all swollen.”
“So are mine,” added Molly, “and I don’t feel like making calls any
more than Dulcie does. You and Maud might go, though.”
“You go, Daisy,” coaxed Maud. “I don’t like that dark closet at night.
Ask her please to sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer,’ or ‘Pull For the Shore.’”
“All right,” said Daisy, good-naturedly, and after giving the afflicted
Dulcie a sympathetic kiss on the back of her bowed head, she tripped
away cheerfully on her errand.
The children had become quite accustomed to visiting their neighbor
by this time, and the mysterious door in the wall had lost some of
its original fascination. Still, there was always a certain thrill
of excitement in turning the handle, and the sudden plunge into the
housemaid’s closet next door. Daisy’s heart beat rather fast, as she
groped her way amid brooms and dust-pans, and stepped out into the
lighted hall. Outside Miss Polly’s door she paused for a moment, to
make sure the little cripple was alone. Once they had heard voices,
and had crept quietly away again, for if the landlady, or any one else
in the boarding-house, were to discover their secret, who knew what
might happen? It was possible that Miss Collins might have as strong an
objection to an unlocked door between the houses as Grandma herself.
But to-night all was quiet, and after a moment’s hesitation, Daisy
knocked softly.
Instead of the usual sound of the wheel-chair being pushed across the
room, a rather unsteady voice called, “Come in.”
“Good evening, Miss Polly,” said the visitor, cheerfully, as she
stepped over the threshold, and closed the door, “I came to ask--why,
Miss Polly, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
Miss Polly was not in the wheel-chair; she was in bed, and the face she
turned to greet the little girl was very white. But at Daisy’s anxious
question, she tried to smile her old bright smile.
“No, no, dear, not ill, only a little tired. I asked Maggie to help me
to bed before she went out for the evening. Come and sit down. I am
glad to have company, but where are the others?”
“They couldn’t come very well this evening,” said Daisy, blushing. “I
can’t stay long either; I only came to ask if you would sing something,
but of course you can’t now you’re in bed. Why, Miss Polly, where’s the
piano?”
“It’s gone, dearie,” answered Miss Polly, in the same low, unsteady
voice in which she had called “come in.” “It went away this afternoon.
I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to sing to you any
more.”
“Oh, Miss Polly,” cried Daisy, and stopped short in sudden
embarrassment, for her friend’s cheeks, which had been so pale a moment
before, had flushed a dusky crimson, and there was such a sad look in
her eyes that the little girl could not think of another word to say.
But Miss Polly was not slow to read the sympathy in her visitor’s face.
“Don’t look so distressed,” she said, kindly. “Come here and sit on the
bed, and I’ll tell you about it. It was hard, of course, but we all
have hard things to bear sometimes, and I ought to be thankful that I
was able to keep my dear piano so long.”
“Was it the gentleman in the back room who objected?” asked Daisy, as
she took the proffered seat on the bed, and slipped her hand into Miss
Polly’s.
Miss Polly gave the kind little hand an affectionate squeeze.
“No, dear, nobody objected, every one was very kind. Miss Collins even
tried to persuade me to keep it a little longer, but I couldn’t do
that, after I understood about the money.”
“What money?” inquired Daisy, with deep interest.
“My money, dear. It isn’t all gone, I am thankful to say, but the bank
in Vermont, where I had several hundred dollars, failed the other day,
and my lawyer has written me that I have been spending more than I
realized these past three years. Of course I couldn’t run into debt, so
the wisest plan seemed to be to sell----”
Miss Polly paused abruptly, and put up her hand to shade her eyes.
“You mean to sell the piano?” whispered Daisy, winking hard to keep
back the sympathetic tears. “Oh, Miss Polly, and you loved it so.”
There was a short silence, then Miss Polly spoke, and though her voice
was not as bright as usual, it no longer trembled.
“It seems a little hard just at first,” she said, with a faint smile,
“but I shall get used to it in time, as I had to other things, that
were even harder. It’s wonderful to find how kind and sympathetic
people are. Why, would you believe it, my dear, that foolish Maggie
actually cried when she was putting me to bed. I used to think her a
little indifferent sometimes, but I see I was mistaken. My piano was a
great pleasure, but I still have my books, and my dear little neighbors
too. I shouldn’t like to have Tom hear of it, it would grieve him so
much, but there isn’t any need of his ever knowing.”
“He wouldn’t have let it happen if he had known,” cried Daisy. “Oh,
dear Miss Polly, won’t you please write him about it? He’d be so
unhappy if he ever found out.”
Daisy’s voice was pleading, but Miss Polly shook her head resolutely.
“My dear,” she said, gently, “you don’t understand. Some day Tom must
know, of course, but not till things are a little easier for him. Miss
Collins has been trying to persuade me to write, but I know better. I
had a letter from Tom this morning; such a dear letter; I will read it
to you.”
As she spoke, Miss Polly drew from under her pillow a crumpled sheet of
paper, covered with a firm, manly handwriting.
“I think I could almost repeat it by heart,” she said, smoothing out
the letter with loving fingers. “I keep all his letters, and read them
over and over. This one isn’t very long, but the dear boy is so busy.
It’s very good of him to take the time to write at all. Would you like
to hear what he says?”
Daisy said she would like it very much, and Miss Polly began to read in
a voice that was still a little unsteady.
“DEAR OLD POLLY:
“Your good letter reached us several days ago, and would have been
answered sooner but for the fact that I have been working every
evening this week, and some nights haven’t left the office till after
nine. It’s a bit hard on that little wife of mine, but I tell her all
is grist that comes to our mill, and if things keep on as they have
for the past year, it won’t be very long before I can begin to let
up a little. Who knows but that we may have our carriage, and our box
at the opera, some fine day. Helen laughs when I predict a glorious
future, but, joking aside, I have good reason to expect another raise
of salary in the spring. My employer, Mr. Anderson, gave me a strong
hint to that effect a few days ago.
“We laughed heartily over your description of your interesting little
neighbors, who have discovered a secret door in the wall. Rather
an unusual find in a New York boarding-house, I should think. It
reminds me of some of those thrilling tales we used to read in our
childhood. I shall expect to hear next of a secret staircase leading
to a dungeon, where a captive princess is kept in concealment. I
am glad you find the children so entertaining, but I should think
you might be rather tired when evening comes, and prefer some other
amusement to singing ballads. However, that is your affair, not mine.
All I care about is that you don’t work too hard, and wear yourself
out. You and Helen will have some fine times over your music, when
you make us that long deferred visit, for she is as fond of singing
as you are, and I really think you will be pleased with her voice.
We have hired a piano, and I generally find her singing away like a
nightingale when I come home late of an evening. She says she can’t
help it; it’s the way she has of expressing her happiness. As to your
namesake, if she doesn’t sing yet, she certainly crows. She is as
jolly and healthy as a baby can be, and Helen warns me not to forget
to give you the great news, little Polly has cut her first tooth.
“Now, my dear little sister, I must ask you to pardon a short
letter, for it is after eleven P. M. and Helen is beginning to look
severe, as she invariably does when she considers I am not getting
my proper allowance of sleep. I am delighted to hear that you are
enjoying your piano so much. Have you been to any good concerts
lately? How about the season ticket for the opera I requested you
to buy, with that small Christmas check? Helen and I indulged in a
little dissipation one night last week. She met me in town, and we
dined at a restaurant, and went to the theatre. It was a great treat,
I assure you, and as ‘our one and only maid’ seems a capable sort of
person, Helen was not afraid to leave baby in her care.
“Good-night, old girl. Write often, and believe me, as always,
“Your affectionate brother,
“TOM OLIVER.”
“Isn’t it a dear, kind letter?” said Miss Polly, looking up with
shining eyes.
“It’s very nice indeed,” agreed Daisy, “but, dear Miss Polly, I can’t
help wishing he knew about everything.”
Miss Polly smiled and shook her head.
“No, no, dear,” she said, resolutely, “not just yet. Tom and Helen
must have a little more time to themselves, and then--well, perhaps in
another year. But don’t let us talk any more about my tiresome affairs.
Tell me what you have all been doing since you came to see me last.”
“How long you stayed, Daisy, and Miss Polly never sang a single song,”
reproached Maud, when her sister returned to the nursery, at a quarter
past eight.
“I couldn’t come back any sooner,” explained Daisy. “Miss Polly is
very unhappy, and I think it comforted her a little to have me stay
and talk. I told her all about this afternoon, and she laughed, she
really did, Dulcie, and said she wished she could have seen you and
Paul fighting that big boy. It was the only time she laughed, for, oh,
girls, such a very sad thing has happened. Poor Miss Polly has lost a
great deal of money, and she’s had to sell her piano.”
“I think the world is a very sad place,” remarked Dulcie, with a long
sigh, when they had heard all that Daisy could tell them of Miss
Polly’s troubles. “It’s been a very uncomfortable day, for everybody.
Now let’s go to bed, and I’ll talk to you about Mamma.”
It was nearly half-past nine, and Dulcie’s voice had begun to sound
decidedly drowsy, when they were all startled into wakefulness by a
knock at the nursery door.
“Who is it?” demanded Daisy, sitting up in bed.
“It’s me--I, I mean,” answered a familiar voice. “I can’t stay but a
minute, for fear of Mother, but I heard the missionary man talking as
if he was preaching a sermon, so I’m sure he can’t be going quite yet.
I just wanted to tell Dulcie and Molly I’m not a bit sick, and I don’t
believe I’m going to be. Mother always fusses a lot, but she doesn’t
mean it all, and I’m going to write to Father to-morrow, and tell him
how plucky Dulcie was.”