"He said it was big, and he asked Grandpapa if he might have it, and
Grandpapa said, Yes. I don't know what he wanted it for," said
Phronsie. "And he took other newspapers, too, Polly; oh! ever so many."
"Well, I don't care how many he took, nor what they were," cried Polly,
"only that very identical one. O dear me! Well, I'll ask Jasper."
And rushing from the library, Phronsie following in a small panic over
Polly's distress, she knocked at the door of Jasper's den, a little
room in the wing, looking out on the east lawn.
"Oh! I am so glad you are here," she exclaimed as "Come in!" greeted
her, and both Phronsie and she precipitated themselves with no show of
ceremony, in front of his study table. "O Jasper! could you get me a
copy of "Town Talk?" Jack Rutherford has gone off with ours."
"Town Talk!" repeated Jasper, raising his head from his hands to stare
at her.
"Yes; Jack has taken ours off; Grandpapa gave it to him. Can you,
Jasper? Will it break up your study much?" she poured out anxiously.
"No--that is--never mind," said Jasper, pushing the book away and
springing from his chair. "But whatever in the world do you want that
trash for?" He turned, and looked at her curiously.
"Mrs. Chatterton will let me read it to her; she said so," cried Polly,
clasping her hands nervously, "but if I don't get the paper soon, why,
I'm afraid she'll change her mind."
Jasper gave a low whistle as he flung himself into his coat.
"Inestimable privilege!" he exclaimed at last, tossing on his cap.
"Oh, Jasper! you are so good," cried Polly in a small rapture. "I'm so
sorry to have to ask you."
"I'll go for you, Jasper," declared Phronsie; "Mamsie will let me; I
almost know she will."
"No, no, Phronsie," said Jasper, as she was flying off; "it isn't any
place for you to go to. I shall get one at the hotel--the Allibone.
I'll be back in a trice, Polly."
Polly went out, and sat down in one of the big oaken chairs in the hall
to seize it as it came, and Phronsie deposited herself in an opposite
chair, and watched Polly. And presently in came Jasper, waving the
desired journal. Polly, with a beaming face, grasped it and rushed off
upstairs.
"Polly," called the boy, looking after her, "it isn't too late now for
you to go with them. Lucy Bennett met me at the corner and she said
they will take the twelve o'clock train, instead of the eleven, and she
wanted me to beg you to come."
"No, no," tossed back Polly, rushing on, "I am quite determined to stay
at home." Then she went into Mrs. Chatterton's room, and closed the
door. But she couldn't so easily shut out the longings that would rise
in her heart for the Saturday outing that the other girls were to have.
How lovely it would be! the run out to Silvia Horne's charming house
some ten miles distant; the elegant luncheon they would have, followed
by games, and a dance in the ball-room upstairs, that Silvia's older
sisters used for their beautiful parties. Then the merry return before
dusk, of the twelve girls, all capital friends at school! Oh--oh!
"You've been an unconscionable time," exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton in a
sharp, high key, "just to get a paper. Well, do sit down; I am quite
tired waiting for you."
Polly sat down, and resolutely plunged into the column where the news
items promised the most plentiful yield but in between the lines ran
the doings of the girls: how they were all assembling by this time at
Lucy Bennett's; how they were hurrying off to the train, and all the
other delightful movements of the "outing" flashed before her eyes, as
she finished item after item of her dreary task. But how Mrs.
Chatterton gloated over it!
At last Polly, feeling as if she could not endure another five minutes
of it, glanced up to see the old lady's eyes actually sparkling; her
mouth had fallen into contented curves, and the jeweled hand resting on
the chair-arm was playing with the fringe, while she leaned forward
that she might not lose a word.
"Read that again, Polly," she said, "the list of presents exhibited at
Arabella Granger's wedding. I didn't hear any mention of the
Archibalds. It can't be that they have fallen out; and read more
slowly."
So Polly began once more the long lists of gifts that ushered in the
matrimonial happiness of Mrs. John Westover nee Miss Arabella Granger;
this time, however, stimulated by the pleasure she was giving, to find
it an endurable task.
It seemed to Polly as if Mrs. John Westover had everything on earth
given to her that could possibly be presented at a wedding;
nevertheless the list was gone through again bravely, Polly retracing
her steps two or three times to read the items over for her listener's
slow digestion.
"The Archibalds are not mentioned, either as being there or sending a
gift, nor the Harlands, nor the Smythes, so I am very glad I didn't
remember her," said Mrs. Chatterton, drawing herself up with a relieved
sigh. "Those presents sound fine on paper, but it isn't as well as she
might have done if she had made a different match. Now something else,
Polly," and she dismissed Mrs. Westover with a careless wave of her
hand. Polly flew off into the fashion hints, and was immediately lost
in the whirl of coming toilets. No one noticed when the door opened, so
of course no one saw Mrs. Whitney standing smiling behind the old
lady's big chair.
"Well, Polly," said a pleasant voice suddenly.
Down went Town Talk to the floor as Polly sprang up with a glad cry,
and Mrs. Chatterton turned around nervously.
"Oh, Auntie--Auntie!" cried Polly, convulsively clinging to her, "are
you really here, and is Dicky home?"
"Dear child," said Mrs. Whitney, as much a girl for the moment as Polly
herself. And pressing kisses on the red lips, while she folded her
close--"Yes, Dick is at home. There, go and find him; he is in Mrs.
Pepper's room."
"I am glad to see you so much better, Mrs. Chatterton," said Mrs.
Whitney, leaning over the invalid's chair to lay the tenderest of palms
on the hand resting on the chair-arm.
"Oh, yes, Marian; I am better," said Mrs. Chatterton, looking around
for Polly, then down at the delicious Town Talk carelessly thrown on
the floor. "Will you send her back as soon as possible?" she asked with
her old imperativeness.
"Who--Polly?" said Mrs. Whitney, following the glance. "Why, she has
gone to see Dick, you know. Now, why cannot I read a bit?" and she
picked up the paper.
"You don't know what has been read," said Mrs. Chatterton as Mrs.
Whitney drew up a chair and sat down, running her eye in a practiced
way over the front page. "Dear me, it makes me quite nervous, Marian,
to see you prowling around all over the sheet that way."
"Oh! I shall find something interesting quite soon, I fancy," said Mrs.
Whitney cheerfully, her heart on her boy and the jolly home-coming he
was having. "Here is the Washington news; I mean all about the
receptions and teas."
"She has read that," said Mrs. Chatterton.
"Now for the fashion department." Mrs. Whitney whirled the paper over
dexterously. "Do you know, Mrs. Chatterton, gray stuffs are to be worn
more than ever this spring?"
"I don't care about that," said Mrs. Chatterton quickly, "and besides,
quite likely there'll be a complete revolution before spring really
sets in, and gray stuffs will go out. Find some description of tea
gowns, can't you? I must have one or two more."
"And here are some wonderfully pretty caps, if they are all like the
descriptions," said Mrs. Whitney, unluckily dropping on another
paragraph.
"Caps! who wants to hear about them?" cried Mrs. Chatterton in a
dudgeon. "I hope I'm not at the cap period yet."
"Oh! those lovely little lace arrangements," said Mrs. Whitney hastily;
"don't you know how exquisite they are at Pinaud's?" she cried.
"I'm sure I never noticed," said Mrs. Chatterton indifferently.
"Hortense always arranges my hair better without lace. If you can't
find what I ask you, Marian," raising her voice to a higher key, "you
needn't trouble to read at all."
Fortunately the description of the gown worn by Lady Hartly Cavendish
at a London high tea, stood out in bold relief, as Mrs. Whitney's eyes
nervously ran over the columns again, and she seized upon it.
But in just two moments she was interrupted. "Send that girl back
again, Marian," cried Mrs. Chatterton. "I had just got her trained so
that she suits me. It tires me to death to hear you."
"I do not know whether Polly can come now," said Mrs. Whitney gently;
"she"--
"Do not know whether Polly can come!" repeated Mrs. Chatterton sharply,
and leaning forward in her chair. "Didn't I say I wanted her?"
"You did." Marian's tone did not lose a note of its ordinary
gentleness. "But I shall ask her if she is willing to do it as a favor,
Mrs. Chatterton; you quite understand that, of course?" She, too,
leaned forward in her chair, and gazed into the cold, hard face.
"Just like your father," cried Mrs. Chatterton, settling herself
irascibly back in the chair-depths again. "There is no hope that
affairs in this house will mend. I wash my hands of you."
"I am so glad that you consider me like my father," said Mrs. Whitney
gleefully as a child. "We surely are united on this question."
"May I read some more?" cried Polly, coming in softly, and trying to
calm the impetuous rush of delight as her eyes met Mrs. Whitney's.
"Yes; I am waiting for you," said Mrs. Chatterton. "Begin where you
left off."
Mrs. Whitney bit her pretty lips and slipped out of her chair, just
pausing a moment to lay her hand on the young shoulder as she passed,
and a world of comfort fell upon Polly, shut in once more to her dreary
task.
"How perfectly splendid that I didn't go to Silvia Home's luncheon
party now!" cried Polly's heart over and over between the lines. "If I
had, I should have missed dear Auntie's home-coming, and Dicky's." She
glanced up with luminous eyes as she whirled the sheet. Mrs.
Chatterton, astonishing as it may seem, was actually smiling.
"It's some comfort to hear you read," she observed with a sigh of
enjoyment, "because you enjoy it yourself. I wouldn't give a fig for
anybody to try to do it."
Polly felt like a guilty little thing to take this quietly, and she
eased her conscience by being more glad that she was in that very room
doing that very task. And so the moments sped on.
Outside, Dick was holding high revel as every one revolved around him,
the hero of the coasting accident, till the boy ran considerable danger
from all the attention he was receiving. But one glance and a smile
from Mrs. Whitney brought him back to himself.
"Don't talk any more about it," he cried a trifle impatiently. "I was a
muff to stick on, when I knew we were going over. Mamma, won't you stop
them?"
And she did.
"Do you know, Dicky and I have a secret to tell all of you good
people." The color flew into her soft cheek, and her eyes beamed.
"Really, Marian," said her father, whose hand had scarcely ceased
patting Dick's brown head since the boy's home-coming, "you've grown
young in Badgertown. I never saw you look so well as you do to-day."
Mrs. Whitney laughed and tossed him a gay little smile, that carried
him back to the days when Marian King stood before him looking just so.
"Now listen, father, and all you good people, to my secret--Dicky's and
mine; we are allowed to tell it now. Papa Whitney sailed in the Servia,
and he ought to be in to-day!"
A shout of joy greeted her announcement. Polly, off in her prison,
could hear the merry sounds, and her happy heart echoed them. The
misery of the past week, when she had been bearing an unatoned fault,
seemed to drop away from her as she listened, and to say, "Life holds
sunshine yet."
Then a hush dropped upon the gay uproar. She did not know that Dicky
was proclaiming "Yes, and he is never, never going back again. That is,
unless he takes mamma and me, you know."
Mrs. Chatterton turned suddenly upon the young figure.
"Do go!" She tossed an imperative command with her jeweled fingers.
"You have ceased to be amusing since your interest is all in the other
room with that boy."
Polly dashed the newspaper to the floor, and rushing impulsively across
the room, threw herself, with no thought for the consequences, on her
knees at Mrs. Chatterton's chair.
"Oh--oh!" she cried, the color flying up to the brown waves on her
temples, "don't send me off; then I shall know you never will forgive
me."
"Get up, do!" exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton, in disgust; "you are crushing
my gown, and besides I hate scenes."
But Polly held resolutely to the chair-arm, and never took her brown
eyes from the cold face.
"I must say, Polly Pepper," cried Mrs. Chatterton with rising anger,
"you are the most disagreeable girl that I ever had the misfortune to
meet. I, for one, will not put up with your constant ebullitions of
temper. Go out of this room!"
Polly rose slowly and drew herself up with something so new in face and
manner that the old lady instinctively put up her eyeglass and gazed
curiously through it, as one would look at a strange animal.
"Humph!" she said slowly at last, "well, what do you want to say? Speak
out, and then go."
"Nothing," said Polly in a low voice, but quite distinctly, "only I
shall not trouble you again, Mrs. Chatterton." And as the last words
were spoken, she was out of the room.
"Pretty doings these!" Mr. King, by a dexterous movement, succeeded in
slipping back of the portiere folds into the little writing-room, as
Polly rushed out through the other doorway into the hall. "A fortunate
thing it was that I left Dick, to see what had become of Polly. Now,
Cousin Eunice, you move from my house!" and descending the stairs, he
called determinedly, "Polly, Polly, child!"
Polly, off in her own room now, heard him, and for the first time in
her life, wished she need not answer.
"Polly--Polly!" the determined call rang down the passage, causing her
to run fast with a "Yes, Grandpapa, I'm coming."
"Now, I should just like to inquire," began Mr. King, taking her by her
two young shoulders and looking down into the flushed face, "what she
has been saying to you." "Oh, Grandpapa!" down went Polly's brown head,
"don't make me tell. Please don't, Grandpapa."
"I shall!" declared Mr. King; "every blessed word. Now begin!"
"She--she wanted me to go out of the room," said Polly, in a reluctant
gasp.
"Indeed!" snorted Mr. King. "Well, she will soon go out of that room.
Indeed, I might say, out of the house."
"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Polly, in great distress, and raising the
brown eyes--he was dismayed to find them filling with tears--"don't,
don't send her away! It is all my fault; indeed it is, Grandpapa!"
"Your fault," cried Mr. King irately; "you must not say such things,
child; that's silly; you don't know the woman."
"Grandpapa," cried Polly, holding back the storm of tears to get the
words out, "I never told you--I couldn't--but I said perfectly dreadful
words to her a week ago. Oh, Grandpapa! I did, truly."
"That's right," said the old gentleman in a pleased tone. "What were
they, pray tell? Let us know."
"Oh, Grandpapa, don't!" begged Polly, with a shiver; "I want to forget
them."
"If you would only follow them up with more," said Mr. King
meditatively; "when it comes to tears, she must march, you know."
"I won't cry," said Polly, swallowing the lump in her throat, "if you
will only let her stay."
She turned to him such a distressed and white face that Mr. King stood
perplexedly looking down at her, having nothing to say.
"I'm tired of her," at last he said; "we are all tired of her; she has
about worn us out."
"Grandpapa," cried Polly, seeing her advantage in his hesitation, "if
you will only let her stay, I will never beg you for anything again."
"Well, then she goes," cried Mr. King shortly. "Goodness me, Polly, if
you are going to stop asking favors, Cousin Eunice marches instanter!"
"Oh! I'll beg and tease for ever so many things," cried Polly
radiantly, her color coming back. "Will you let her stay,
Grandpapa--will you?" She clasped his arm tightly and would not let him
go.
"Well," said Mr. King slowly, "I'll think about it, Polly."
"Will you?" cried Polly. "Dear Grandpapa, please say yes."
Mr. King drew a long breath. "Yes," he said at last.