THE GUEST OF HONOR
On Saturday mornings, Polly had two important duties to perform, dusting
the Admiral’s study and her own room. Then came an hour’s practice on
the piano, and after that she was free to walk around the garden and
consult Uncle Peter.
As far back as Polly could remember, Uncle Peter had been as much a part
of the garden at Glenwood as the old elms that bordered the garden, and
she had always considered him a remarkable authority on all subjects. In
fact Uncle Peter justified her opinion of him.
He was not tall and stately like Aunty Welcome, but a little,
stoop-shouldered old man, with a face like a wrinkled russet apple, and
it wore a perpetual smile. Polly used to believe sincerely, when she was
a little girl, that when Uncle Peter walked along the garden paths, all
the flowers turned their heads and bowed to him deferentially.
To-day, as she watched him transplanting seedlings along the borders,
she asked thoughtfully:
“Uncle Peter, do you know what sort of flowers grow out in Wyoming?”
“Whar’s dat, Mis’ Polly?” asked Uncle Peter, gently. “I don’t jest
recollect any sech locality.”
“It’s ’way out west, and kind of northwest, too, up next to the two
Dakotas.”
“Oh, suttinly, suttinly. I s’pose geraniums mought grow dar. Dey’ll
mostly take a holt any ole place. Dey’ll grow upside downside, geraniums
will. Maybe pansies grow dar, too, and phloxes and most any no-account
plant dat ain’t perticklar.”
“Do you think so?” Polly pondered. Her only impression of Wyoming was a
place filled with mountain ranges, and vast wastes of sage brush, and
most of all, a place that was wholly wild—wild flowers, wild animals.
And yet, come to think of it, Jean Murray did not act like a ranch girl
who had run wild. Polly veered to a new tack.
“Did you ever see Miss Diantha Calvert, Uncle Peter?”
“I suttinly did.” Uncle Peter always used his own thumb to make nests in
the soft earth for his baby seedlings, and the thumb went in a bit more
forcibly as he spoke. “She’s stood and watched me work in dis yere very
garden, when she wasn’t much taller’n you be, Mis’ Polly, and I was a
lil’ shaver like Stoney.”
“You’ve always lived here at Glenwood, haven’t you, Uncle Peter?” asked
Polly wonderingly. “Years, and years, and years.”
“And I don’ want to live in no better place ’ceptin’ Paradise, possibly
Paradise,” smiled back the old man, happily. “I was born down yonder in
de ole quarters, yo’ know. We don’ use ’em no more nowadays, ’ceptin’
for storehouses. Miss Diantha, she’d come visitin’ with her sister, and
her lady mother. Dey was quality, now I’m tellin’ you. And Miss Di, she
allers liked de time when de lilies come troopin’ along, de big lilies,
gold with ruby hearts.”
“Did she know my own mother?” Polly asked the question slowly, and
softly, as she always spoke of the young mother whom she had never seen,
who had died when she was only a few days old.
“Land, no, chile. She knew yo’ grandma. Mis’ Car’line. Dat’s de
Admiral’s lady. Why, your own daddy warn’t no more’n born. What you all
askin’ questions for? Jes’ like a darby bird.”
Polly forgot to ask what a darby bird was, in her eagerness to get at
the truth of this matter about Miss Diantha.
“Why, I heard only last night, that she was married, and lived ’way out
west in Wyoming, and I wondered how it had happened.”
“Like enough, like enough,” Uncle Peter rejoined placidly. “When folks
move away from Virginny, after being blessed enough to be born hyar,
dey’s liable to have all sorts of misconveniences happen to ’em.”
“Yes, sir,” Polly said meekly. Not for worlds would she have directly
contradicted Uncle Peter. Next to the Admiral and Aunty Welcome, he
stood in authority. On her way back to the house she gathered flowers to
decorate the broad old hall, great clusters of purple and white lilac
that filled the air with fragrance. As she was arranging them in the
low, plump jardinières in the hall, she thought of that other girl,
years and years ago, who had loved to visit beautiful Glenwood when the
lilies were in bloom. She wondered whether Mrs. “Sandy” of the Alameda
Ranch, ever longed to see some of these same golden lilies with the ruby
hearts, just to make her think of dear old Queen’s Ferry. And most of
all, perhaps, she wondered how it had all happened, why Diantha had ever
married, why she had gone to live so far west, and why Miss Calvert
never mentioned her name, yet loved her memory dearly.
It was about five that afternoon when Miss Murray arrived.
“Am I too early, Polly?” she asked, as Polly ran to greet her. “It is
only five, but you know you said to come early.”
“Oh, and I’m so glad that you did, Miss Murray,” cried Polly.
“Grandfather has gone up to the Capitol to meet Senator Yates this
afternoon, and is going out home with him to Fair Oaks, so I am all
alone. We’ll go out in the garden, and talk.”
“This is my first visit anywhere since I came east,” Jean remarked, as
she laid aside her hat and coat, “so you can guess how much I enjoy it.”
“Why is it your first?” Polly had a natural gift for hitting the main
point on the head.
“Because no one has asked me, I think.” Jean’s mouth was full of
expression. It had a way of closing, and then smiling in the most
knowing sort of way, Polly thought, as she watched it now. Somehow, it
made her feel nonplussed, but she went ahead frankly.
“Maybe no one dared to. I know I never did. You always act—so—oh, I
hardly know how to say it. As if you didn’t care really whether anybody
liked you or not, as if you were so sure of yourself, and so well
acquainted with yourself, don’t you understand, Miss Murray, that you
did not need other people for company.”
“Ah, but I do need them, and very badly, too, sometimes,” protested
Jean, slipping her arm around Polly’s waist, as they went down the
broad, old-fashioned hall to the open doors at the back. “I have been
more lonely since I came east than I dare to confess. You may be sure,
though, I never wrote home that I was. We are Scotch, Polly, and you
warm-hearted Southerners will never know all that that means. When
anything is in your heart, it bubbles out like a spring, doesn’t it,
sorrow or happiness? But when we are happiest or saddest, well, we just
can’t say anything. It is all here, ’way down deep in our hearts, but we
can’t seem to lift it out, and exhibit it. So you see, girlie, while I
may have seemed independent and self-sufficient all winter long, I was
really eating my heart out for very lonesomeness. Can you understand?”
Polly nodded sympathetically. She always could understand the other
person’s point of view.
“That is why the girls never became really acquainted with you, then. I
tried to. You see, I always liked you, Miss Murray, and when I like
anybody without trying to like them—when it just happens all by itself,
I know it will last.”
Jean leaned back her head, and laughed merrily.
“Polly, you are a joy. You think aloud, don’t you? And what a dear,
quaint old garden. I love these winding paths, and arbors, but how oddly
some of the flowers have come up, how unexpectedly, I mean.” She stopped
before a clump of tall flag lilies, unfolding purple and golden banners
to the soft air.
“Yes, I know,” Polly replied, happily. “I planted those bulbs there last
fall. That turn of the path seemed sort of bare all through the summer,
so I remembered it, and when fall came, I tucked some bulbs in there.
I’ve always planted things where I’ve wanted to out here. At first Uncle
Peter—that’s our gardener—didn’t like it, but as soon as he saw the
effect, he said that I ‘suttinly had good intentions.’ I like to take a
lot of seed in my sweater pockets in the early spring, and wherever I
find a good place, just plant some. It’s so interesting and surprising,
too, because I never know exactly what it is I’ve planted till they
start to come up.”
“It must be fun to watch for the surprises.”
“Oh, indeed it is. Why, once,” Polly’s eyes were brimful of mischief at
the sudden memory, “once I put a bulb down in that corner by the hedge,
and watched the next spring to see what it would be. It came up all
right, with green spikes, but it never bloomed at all. And it grew and
grew so tall. I called it the Mystery Lily. At last, one day last fall,
it did bloom. Right at the very top of the single stalk was a cluster of
queer, starry flowers, all bunched together. Uncle Peter didn’t know
what it was, and grandfather came out to take a look at it, and what do
you suppose it was, Miss Murray? Just a plain, every-day onion gone to
seed.”
“Polly, Polly,” exclaimed Jean, shaking her head, “I shall always think
of you after this, like Millet’s Sower, with a peck of mixed seed, going
around planting seed as the wind does.”
Someway, she began to feel happier and more relaxed than she had since
her coming to Queen’s Ferry. The long winter’s work at the Hall had been
very confining, and she was not used to that. Out here, in Polly’s
garden, all her nature-loving self responded to the growing things about
her, and most of all, to the growing girl, whose soul and personality
were unfolding, too, in her springtime of youth, with all the unknown
possibilities and promises of her random seed.
“I would love to see you out on the range, Polly,” she continued. “They
say, you know, that Johnny Appleseed went through the wilderness
planting apple trees back in colonial times, and in California to-day,
up at ‘The Heights’ above San Francisco, the dear old poet of the
Sierras plants roses through the cañons.”
“Does he?” Polly thought for a minute. “I think that is splendid. I
shall tell Ruth about it. You know how old-fashioned and motherly she
is, Miss Murray. Sometimes, I almost think she is my dearest friend,
although I like the other girls, too. Ruth says that my way of planting
is an allegory. She says we all of us sow kind deeds and happy thoughts
broadcast, and trust to the winds that blow, and the rains that fall,
and the sun that is sure to shine sometime, to make them take roots and
grow, even in strange hearts. Let’s sit on this stone seat, and talk
about the ranch. I wish that our outing club had a chance to go to some
place like that.”
“Why not make the chance?” Jean reached out her hand to the bush of
flowering quince beside the seat. The branches were heavy with the rich,
red blossoms. “I used to talk about waiting for chances, too, long ago,
until mother taught me to make my own chances. You see, Polly, it is
different with us at the ranch. Nearly all of you girls at Calvert do
not have to fret or care about the future. You have beautiful old homes
like this—”
“Not Ruth, Miss Murray,” interrupted Polly, soberly. “Her father’s dead,
and she is studying, to support her invalid mother—didn’t you know that?
I think she’s so strong and brave. She says she loves to even think that
she is able to. And beautiful homes, even like Glenwood, can’t make up
to a girl for mothers and fathers. I haven’t any, myself, you know.”
The two looked at each other with new-born understanding, and Jean’s
strong, freckled hand was laid over Polly’s, as it rested on the bench
beside her.
“I know, dear. But it usually makes a girl more self-reliant and helpful
to others, if she does have to think of her own future, and to lend a
helping hand towards feathering the home-nest. That is what we three
older children have done, and it binds us in a closer tie of love, each
helping the rest to get along as soon as he himself can fly alone, so to
speak.”
“Helping how?”
“Well, for instance, I am the eldest at home. Father and mother worked
hard to push me through school, and I had two years at the University
besides, but had to leave to help. I began to teach, then, and my
earnings helped launch the boys on their schooling. Don and Peggie come
last of all, but they will have their turn the same as the rest. Don’t
you see?”
Polly opened her eyes wider, and nodded her head. She did see, a little
bit clearer. Life and happiness had been made so easy for her that she
hardly ever thought how hard a path to travel it might be for the boy or
girl who had no home like Glenwood, and no grandfather like the Admiral.
Somehow, this quiet chat by the river bank, in the soft glow of the late
April afternoon, brought new conceptions to her mind, and new vistas of
life. Love that was strong enough to make willing sacrifices for those
it loved even though it involved hardship and self-denial, was quite new
to her.
“I’d love to know them all at your ranch,” she said, finally.
Just here the Admiral came pacing along the path towards them, fresh
from his ride over to Senator Yates’ place. Whenever he missed Polly, he
always knew where to find her, but this time, he stared thoughtfully at
the young woman with her.
“God bless my heart and soul, Polly,” he exclaimed, “if you haven’t
captured my thoroughbred! Present me, Polly, present me.”
Polly did so, happily, and the old gentleman bowed low over Jean’s hand
with all the old-time courtly grace that he was famous for.
“My dear child, you must pardon an old chap’s enthusiasm,” he said, “but
you certainly ride a horse more inspiringly than any girl I ever saw. It
is a joy to watch you. I have reined up several times to look after you
as you took the river road at a dead gallop—and Polly, she sits her
saddle like an Indian. None of this modern rising and falling, if you
please. Where did you learn, Miss Murray, if I may ask?”
Jean laughed, and blushed. Praise was new to her.
“I don’t remember learning to ride, Admiral Page,” she said, doubtfully.
“I’m a ranch girl, and we learn to sit in a saddle almost before we can
walk.”
The Admiral regarded her admiringly, stroking his thin gray imperial
slowly.
“You must teach my Polly. And mind, while you remain here at Queen’s
Ferry, the gates of Glenwood stand wide to you as guest of honor—a girl
who can ride like that.”
Jean could hardly reply, except to smile at him. During the long winter
of close work, she had made no new friends, and had not come in contact
with Southern hospitality. Now, as she walked back through the lovely
old-fashioned garden, between Polly and the stately old gentleman, she
began to feel the charm of it stealing over her. It seemed so strange,
though, that she, Jean Murray of the Crossbar ranch, should be guest of
honor at Glenwood. She lifted her chin a little bit higher than usual,
not from pride, for there was precious little of personal vanity in her
make-up, but just at the thought of what her mother and the boys and
Peggie would say if they only knew.