Produced by Ralph Zimmerman, Steve Schulze, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
HALF A DOZEN GIRLS
by
ANNA CHAPIN RAY
TO MY PARENTS
I OFFER THESE MEMORIES OF A HAPPY, NAUGHTY CHILDHOOD.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray:
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day.
"Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make life, death, and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song."
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
CONTENTS.
I. THE ADAMS FAMILY
II. THE V
III. THE GIRLS TRY TO IMPROVE THEIR MINDS
IV. MISS BEAN COMES TO LUNCH
V. TWO MORE GIRLS
VI. POLLY ENCOUNTERS THE SERVANT QUESTION
VII. POLLY'S HOUSEKEEPING
VIII. HALLOWEEN
IX. THE NEW READING CLUB
X. POLLY'S POEM
XI. JEAN'S CHRISTMAS EVE
XII. HALF A DOZEN COOKS
XIII. ALAN AND POLLY HAVE A DRESS REHEARSAL
XIV. POLLY'S DARK DAY
XV. THE PLAY
XVI. JOB GOES TO A FUNERAL
XVII. MISS BEAN'S VISIT IS RETURNED
XVIII. MR. BAXTER TAKES A NAP
XIX. KATHARINE'S CALL
XX. ONE LAST GLIMPSE
CHAPTER I.
THE ADAMS FAMILY.
"'There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl,
And it hung right down over her forehead;
And when she was good,
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad, _she was horrid_!'"
"And that's you!" chanted Polly Adams in a vigorous crescendo, as
she watched the retreating figure of her guest. Then climbing down
from her perch on the front gate, she added to herself, "Mean old
thing! I s'pose she thinks I care because she's gone home; but I'm
glad of it, so there!" And with an emphatic shake of her curly
head, she ran into the house.
Up-stairs, in the large front room, sat her mother and her aunt,
busy with their sewing. The blinds were closed, to keep out the
warm sun of a sultry July day, and only an occasional breath of
air found its way in between their tightly turned slats. The whir
of the locust outside, and the regular creak, creak of Aunt Jane's
tall rocking-chair were the only sounds to break the stillness.
This peaceful scene was ruthlessly disturbed by Polly, who came
flying into the room and dropped into a chair at her mother's
side.
"Oh, how warm you are here!" she exclaimed, as she pushed back the
short red-gold hair that curled in little, soft rings about her
forehead.
"Little girls that will run on such a day as this must expect to
be warm," remarked Aunt Jane sedately, while she measured a hem
with a bit of paper notched to show the proper width. "Now if you
and Molly would bring your patchwork up here, and sew quietly with
your mother and me, you would be quite cool and comfortable."
"Patchwork!" echoed Polly, with a scornful little laugh. "Girls
don't sew patchwork nowadays, Aunt Jane."
"It would be better for them if they did, then," returned Aunt
Jane severely. "It is a much more useful way of spending one's
time, than embroidering nonsensical red wheels and flowers and
birds on your aprons, as you have been doing. Your grandmother
used to make us sew patchwork; and before I was your age, I had
pieced up three bedquilts,--one rising-sun, one fox-chase, and the
other just plain boxes."
"I don't care," Polly interrupted saucily; "I never could see the
use of cutting up yards and yards of calico, just for the sake of
sewing it together again. Wouldn't you rather have me make you a
pretty apron, Jerusalem?" And she leaned over to pat her mother's
cheek affectionately, as she added, "And besides, Molly's gone
home."
"Has she?" asked Mrs. Adams, in some surprise. "I thought she was
going to spend the day."
Polly blushed a little.
"So she was," she admitted at length; "but she changed her mind."
Mrs. Adams looked at her little daughter inquiringly for a moment,
and seemed about to speak, but catching the eye of Aunt Jane, who
was watching them sharply, she only said,--
"I am sorry; for I wanted to send a pattern to Mrs. Hapgood, when
she went home, and now I shall have to wait."
"I'll take it over now, mamma; I'd just as soon." And Polly jumped
up and caught her sailor hat from the table where she had tossed
it.
"I should like to have you, if you will, Polly. It is in my room,
and I'll get it for you."
She put down her work and went out into the hall, followed by
Polly.
"Have you and Molly been quarrelling again?" she asked, when the
door had closed between them and Aunt Jane.
"Only a little bit, mamma," confessed Polly. "Molly was teasing me
all the time, and at last I was mad, so I said I wished she'd go
home, and she went right straight off."
"I am sorry my daughter should be so rude to her company," began
Mrs. Adams soberly.
"So'm I," interrupted Polly; "I don't mean to; but she makes me
cross, and before I know it I flare up. I wish she hadn't gone,
too; for we promised to go over to see Florence this afternoon,
and she'll think it is queer if we don't."
"I wish you would try to be a little more patient, Polly," said
her mother. "You mustn't be cross every time that Molly laughs at
you; and you answered Aunt Jane very rudely just now. You need to
watch that tongue of yours, my dear, and not let it run away with
you. And now take this to Mrs. Hapgood, and tell her she will need
to allow a good large seam when she cuts it, for Molly is taller
than you."
"Yes'm," said Polly meekly, as she held up her face for the kiss,
without which she never left the house.
Then she slowly went down the stairs, and out at the door,
thinking over what her mother had just said to her, and resolving,
as she did at least twice every day, that she would never, never
quarrel with Molly again. But not in vain had Mrs. Adams devoted
the past thirteen years to watching her only child, and she
understood Polly's present mood well enough to call to her from
the window,--
"You'd better bring Molly back to lunch, I think. We're going to
have raspberry shortcake, and you know she likes that."
And Polly looked up, with a brightening face, to answer,--
"All right."
Then, in spite of the warm day, she went hurrying off down the
street, while her mother stood by the window, watching until the
bright curls under the blue sailor hat had passed out of sight.
Then she turned away with a half-smile, saying to herself,--
"Poor Polly! She has hard times fighting her temper; but Molly
does tease her unmercifully. After all, she comes naturally by it,
for she's very much as I was, at her age."
"What's the matter?" queried Aunt Jane, as her sister came back
and took up her work once more. "Have Molly and Polly been having
another fuss?"
"Nothing serious, I think," said Mrs. Adams lightly.
Aunt Jane's thin lips straightened out into an ominous line as she
answered,--
"Strange those two children can't get on together! I think it is
largely Polly's fault, for Molly is a sweet, quiet girl. You are
spoiling Polly, Isabel, as I keep telling you. Some day you'll
come to realize it, and be sorry."
Mrs. Adams bit her lip for an instant, and a clear, bright color
came into her cheeks; but after a moment she replied quietly,--
"You must allow me to be the judge of that, Jane."
"Of course you can do as you like with your own child," retorted
Aunt Jane stiffly; "but I can't shut my eyes to what is going on
around me, and let a naturally good child be spoiled for want of a
firm hand, without saying a word to stop it. Your mother didn't
bring you up in that way, Isabel, though she did indulge you a
great deal more than she did us older children."
As Aunt Jane paused, Mrs. Adams rose abruptly and left the room,
saying something about a letter which she must write in time for
the next mail.
Aunt Jane could be exasperating at times, as even her younger
sister was forced to admit, and occasionally she was driven to the
necessity of running away from her, rather than yield to the
temptation of answering sharp words with sharper. Mrs. Adams could
and did bear patiently with unasked advice in all matters but one;
but in regard to the discipline of her little daughter she stood
firm, for she and her husband had agreed that here Aunt Jane was
not to be allowed to interfere. Yet, though Aunt Jane soon found
that her sister left her and went away whenever the subject was
mentioned, the worthy woman was not to be turned aside, but
returned to the charge with unfailing persistency.
The intimacy between mother and daughter was a peculiar one, and
at times seemed far more like that between two sisters. Mrs. Adams
was one of the women whose highest ambition was of the rather old-
fashioned kind,--to make a pleasant, homelike home, and to be an
intelligent, helpful wife and mother. From her quiet corner she
looked out at her friends who had "careers," with curiosity rather
than envy, and, for herself, was content to have her world bounded
by the interests of her husband and Polly. It might be a narrow
life, but it was a busy and a happy one. With all her household
cares, she still found time to look into the books which were
interesting her husband, and intelligently discuss their contents
with him; she read aloud with Polly, played games with her, and
watched over her with a quick understanding of this warm-hearted,
impetuous little daughter, in whom she saw herself so closely
reflected that she knew, from the memory of her own childhood,
just how to deal with all of Polly's freaks and whims. And her
endless patience and devotion were well rewarded, for Polly adored
her pretty, bright little mother with all the fervor of her being.
There were times, it is true, when Polly rebelled against all
restraint; but such moments were of short duration, and, for the
most part, she yielded easily to the pleasant, firm discipline
which made duty enjoyable, and punishment the necessary result of
wrong-doing, a result as hard for the mother to inflict as for the
child to bear. In her gentler moods, Polly realized that nowhere
else could she find so good a friend, so interested and
sympathetic in all that concerned her, and the two spent long
hours together, now talking quite seriously, now chattering and
laughing like children, with a perfect good-fellowship which
appeared very disrespectful to Aunt Jane, who believed in the old-
time rule, that children should be seen, not heard. However, Polly
never minded Aunt Jane's frown in the least, but went on playing
with her mother and petting her, confiding to her her joys and
sorrows, her friendships and her quarrels, and calling her by an
endless succession of endearing names, of which her latest was
Jerusalem, an epithet taken from her favorite, "Oh, Mother dear,
Jerusalem," and adapted to its present use, to the great
mystification of her aunt, to whom Polly refused to explain its
derivation.
Between his office hours and his patients, Polly saw but little of
her father; for Dr. Adams was the popular physician of the large,
quiet, old New England town where they lived. A man who had grown
up among books, and among thinking, wide-awake people, he was a
worthy descendant of the two presidents with whom he claimed
kinship. He was a strong, fine-looking man, so full of quiet
energy that his very presence in the sick-room was encouraging to
the invalid; and he had come to be at once the friend, physician,
and adviser of every family in town, whether rich or poor. If his
patients could afford to pay him for his visits, very well; if
not, it was just as well, for neither Dr. Adams nor his wife
desired to be rich. To live comfortably themselves, to lay up a
little for the future, and to be able to help their poorer
neighbors, now and then,--this was all they wished, and this was
easily accomplished. In past years, two or three other doctors had
settled in the town; but after a few months of trial they had
closed their offices and gone away, because not one of Dr. Adams's
patients could be tempted to leave him, and his lively black horse
and shabby buggy were seen flying about the streets, while their
shiny new carriages either stood idle in their stables, or were
taken out for an occasional pleasure drive.
If Polly had been asked what was her greatest trial, her answer,
truthful and emphatic, would have been: "Aunt Jane." It was a
mystery to her as, indeed, it was to every one else, how two
sisters could be so unlike. Mrs. Adams was a pretty, graceful
little woman, with a dainty charm about her, and a winning, off-
hand manner, which made her a favorite with both young and old.
Aunt Jane Roberts was tall and thin, with a cast-iron sort of
countenance, surmounted by a row of little, tight, gray frizzles
of such remarkable durability that, though evidently the result of
art rather than nature, neither wind nor storm, appeared to have
any effect upon them. On festal occasions it was her habit to
adorn herself with a symmetrical little blue satin bow, placed
above these curls and slightly to one side; but there was nothing
in the least flippant or coquettish about this decoration, for it
was as precise and unvarying as the gray frizz below it, and only
seemed to intensify the hard, unyielding lines of her face.
Miss Roberts was fifteen years older than her sister, and she
appeared to have been stamped with the seal of single blessedness
while she still lay in her cradle and played with her rattle;--
that is, if she ever had unbent so far as to play with anything.
Even her walk was not like that of most women; she moved along
with a slow, deliberate stride which was at times almost spectral,
and reminded one of the resistless, onward march of the fates.
Aunt Jane was serious-minded and progressive, and, worst of all,
she was conscientious. However great a blessing a conscience must
be considered, there are some consciences that make their owners
extremely unpleasant. Whenever Aunt Jane was particularly trying,
her friends brought forward the singular excuse: "Jane is
_so_ conscientious; she means to do just right." And she
certainly did. So far as she could distinguish its direction, Aunt
Jane trod the path of duty, but she trod it as a martyr, not like
one who finds it a pleasant, sunshiny road, with bright,
interesting spots scattered all along its way. She had advanced
ideas about women and pronounced theories as to the rearing of
children; she was a member of countless clubs, and served on all
the committees to talk about reform; she visited the jail
periodically, and marched through the wards of the hospital with a
stony air of sympathy highly gratifying to the inmates, who tried
to be polite to her because of her relationship to the doctor,
whom they all adored. The demands of her public duties left Miss
Roberts little time for home life; but in the few rare intervals,
she sewed for her sister, refusing the more attractive work, and
devoting herself to sheets, pillow-cases, and kitchen towels, in
the penitential, self-sacrificing way which is so trying to the
person receiving the favor. She appeared to regard these labors as
an offset to the frank criticisms of her sister's housekeeping,
which she never hesitated to make when the opportunity offered.
Aunt Jane had come to live with her sister soon after Mrs. Adams
was married; and the doctor's happy, even temper enabled him to
make the best of the situation, though he had at once given Miss
Roberts to understand that she was in no way to interfere with him
or his concerns.
No introduction to the Adams family would be complete which failed
to mention Job Trotter, for Job was a faithful servant who had
done good service for many a long day. He was the old family horse
whom the doctor had driven for years, but who, owing to age and
infirmity, had been put on the retired list as a veteran, and
given over to the tender mercies of Mrs. Adams. She changed his
youthful nickname of Trot to the more fitting one of Job, and
stoutly maintained his superiority to the lively colt that
succeeded him between the thills of the doctor's buggy. Job, too,
appeared to share her opinion, and never failed to give a vicious
snap at his rival, whenever they came in contact. There was a
family legend that Job had been a fast animal in his day, and Mrs.
Adams often told the story of the doctor's first ride after him:
how, at the end of a mile, he had turned his pale face to the
horse-dealer who was driving, and piteously besought him: "In
mercy's name, man, let me get out; I've had enough of this!" But
all this was enveloped in the haze of the remote past, and now Job
was neither a dangerous nor exhilarating steed, but rather, a
restful one, who allowed his driver to contemplate the landscape
and impress its charms upon his memory. Job had been twenty-three
years old when the doctor handed him over to his wife; and, as if
to prove his relationship to the family, and to Aunt Jane in
particular, he had never advanced a year in age since then, but,
long, long afterwards, his headstone bore the legend:
IN MEMORY OF
JOB TROTTER,
A FAITHFUL FRIEND,
WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.
A rear view of Job still showed him a fine-looking horse, for his
delicate skin, slightly dappled here and there, his long, thick
tail and proudly arching neck plainly betokened his aristocracy.
But unfortunately, reckless driving in his youth had bent his fore
legs to a decided angle, and turned in his toes in an absurdly
deprecating fashion, until Mrs. Adams declared that she would put
a skirt on him to cover these defects, unless people stopped
turning to look after him and laugh.
But it was when he was in motion that Job exhibited his
peculiarities to the best advantage. His ordinary gait was a slow,
dignified walk, varied, at times, by a trot of which the direction
was of the up-and-down species, and made his progress even slower
than usual. But now and then the old fellow would seem to be
inspired with a little of his former spirit, and, after a skittish
little kick, he would straighten his body with a suddenness which
brought Mrs. Adams to her feet, and rush off at a mad pace that
soon faltered and failed, when the old brown head would turn, and
the gentle eyes seem to say pleadingly,--
"I did try, but I can't."
In reality, the cause of Job's slowness lay, not so much in his
age as in his afflicted knees; and they kept his driver in a
constant state of anxiety as to which pair would give out next.
Now his hind legs would suddenly fail him, and he would apparently
attempt to seat himself in the dust; then, just as he had
recovered from that shock, his front knees would collapse, and Job
would plunge madly forward on his venerable nose.
But, after all, they had many a pleasant drive up and down the
country roads, where the old horse plodded onwards, apparently
enjoying the scenery as much as his mistress did, now stopping to
graze by the roadside, now suddenly turning aside and, before his
driver was aware of his intention, landing her in the dooryard of
some farmhouse where the doctor had visited a patient years
before. For Job had a retentive memory, and was never known to
forget a road or a house where he had once been. During the last
of the time that the doctor had driven him, he had lent him to do
occasional service at funerals, where Job was never known to
disgrace himself by breaking into an indecorous trot. Something in
the ceremony of these melancholy journeys had struck Job's fancy
and impressed the circumstances on his memory to such an extent
that, ever after, he was reluctant to pass the cemetery gate, but
tugged hard at the lines to show his desire to enter. It was not
so bad when Mrs. Adams and Polly were by themselves; but Mrs.
Adams often invited some convalescing patient of the doctor to go
for a quiet little drive, and it was mortifying to have Job,
taking advantage of the moment when his mistress was deep in
conversation, stalk solemnly under the arching gateway and bring
his invalid passenger to a halt beside some new-made grave. There
seemed to be no apology that could fitly meet the occasion and do
away with the gloomy suggestiveness of the situation.
Aunt Jane rarely had time to drive with Job, for an ordinarily
fast walker could pass him by; but Polly and her mother enjoyed
him to the utmost, and spoiled him as much as they enjoyed him,
letting him stroll along as he chose, stopping whenever and
wherever he wished. To avoid being dependent on the man, who was
often away driving the doctor upon his rounds, Mrs. Adams had
learned to harness Job herself, and nearly every pleasant day she
could be seen buckling the straps and fastening him into the
carriage, while the old creature stood quiet, rubbing his head
against her shoulder, now and then, with a gentle, caressing
motion, or turning suddenly to pretend to snap at Polly, who was
much in awe of him, and then throwing up his head and showing his
teeth, in a scornful laugh at her fear.
This was the family circle in which Polly Adams had spent the
thirteen happy years of her life, respecting and loving her
father, adoring her mother, and continually coming in conflict
with Aunt Jane. And Polly herself? Like countless other girls, she
was good and bad, naughty and lovable by turns, now yielding to
violent fits of temper, now going into the depths of penitence for
them; but always, in the inmost recesses of her childish soul,
possessed with a firm resolve to be as good a woman as her mother
was before her. She knew no higher ambition.