MISS BEAN COMES TO LUNCH.
"Oh, dear me, Jean!" sighed Polly. "I do believe there's Miss
Deborah Bean coming down the street."
"What of her?" inquired Jean indifferently.
"Why, if 'tis, she's coming here to lunch. She says all the
hateful things she can think of; and you don't know how queer she
is. I can't help laughing at her; and that makes mamma cross, for
she wants me to be polite to her, because she's old as Methuselah
and poor as Job's turkey."
"I didn't suppose your mother was ever cross," said Jean.
"Oh, she isn't cross, exactly; but sometimes she doesn't like
things as well as others."
"Most people don't," remarked Jean sagely.
Miss Bean's present home was in the poorhouse, from which place of
retreat she made expeditions into the town, at intervals, to visit
her old acquaintances, and among them was Mrs. Adams, for whose
mother she had sewed, during her younger, stronger days. On these
great occasions, she was wont to cast aside the plain gown which
she ordinarily wore, and bring out to the light of day the one
that had for years served as her best when she went into the
institution. Accordingly, it was a strange figure that turned in
at the doctor's gate, and came to a halt before the two girls who
were sitting on the grass under one of the tall elms on the lawn.
Her gown was of some black woollen stuff, figured with green, and
its short, full skirt fell in voluminous folds over her large
hoops. A white muslin cape covered her shoulders; and her head was
adorned with a yellow straw shaker bonnet, in the depths of which
her wrinkled face, with its pointed chin and bright eyes, looked
like the face of some mammoth specimen of the cat tribe, an effect
that was increased by her high, shrill voice. Black lace mitts
covered her hands; and she carried, point upward, a venerable
brown umbrella, loosely rolled up, and held in place with two
rubber bands.
"Is your ma at home?" she asked Polly abruptly.
"She's in the house," answered Polly, rising with some reluctance.
"I'll go and call her. You stay here, Jean."
"Jean who?" inquired Miss Bean, bringing her spectacles to bear on
Jean's blooming face.
"Jean Dwight, ma'am," said Jean demurely, in spite of a strong
desire to laugh.
"Bill Dwight's daughter?"
Jean nodded, while her color rose at the rough abbreviation of her
father's name.
"I want to know! He was a son of old Enos Dwight and Melissy
Pettigrew; and I can remember the time, and not so very long ago,
either, when the Adamses wouldn't have had anything to do with
such folks," remarked Miss Bean, who Avas not only a firm believer
in the aristocracy of the old town, but regarded it as her right
to utter all the disagreeable truths that came into her brain.
To-day she had spoken rashly, for Polly, angry at the insult to
her friend, faced her with blazing eyes, while every little curl
on her head was dancing with indignation.
"It doesn't make any difference what you think about it, Miss
Bean. My mother has charge of me, not you; and she's glad to have
Jean come here."
"Dear sakes! Red hair does show in the temper," sighed Miss Bean,
unconsciously touching another sore spot, for Polly's hair was one
of her trials.
"I'd rather have red hair and a temper, than meddle with what
doesn't--" Polly was beginning hotly; but remembering that the old
woman, though uninvited, was yet a guest, she added hastily, "Come
into the house."
When she came out under the trees again, she found Jean still
sitting on the grass, with a little suspicious moisture around her
eyes. Polly dropped down by her side, and impulsively pulling
Jean's head over into her lap, she bent down and kissed her.
"It's a shame, Jean!" said she. "Don't you mind a word the old
thing says. I don't care anything about your grandpa and grandma;
they might have been brought up in jail, for all I care. It's you
that I like. She's a horrid old woman."
"I don't mean to care," said Jean disconsolately; "but some people
always have to tell me I'm a nobody."
"No, you aren't, you're somebody," contradicted Polly. "And as
long as you're splendid yourself, I don't see what difference it
makes whether you have forty cents or forty million dollars, and
whether you carpenter for a living or doctor for it,--or beg for
it, the way she does."
They were silent for a minute, and then Polly added, with a
laugh,--
"There's one thing about it, we'll have some fun out of her, for
she's going to stay to lunch, and she's so funny at the table. She
minces so, and she never refuses anything to eat without telling
just why she doesn't like it. One time, mamma offered her some
pie, and she said, 'Oh, my, no! I never eat it. Pie-crust is
grease packed in flour.' I'm so glad you are here to-day."
When the girls went into the house at lunch time, Miss Bean was in
the midst of a stream of gossip. Her usual surroundings gave rise
to no more varied subjects than the personal appearance of her
companions, and the routine of the housework, in which they all
had a share. Doubtless it was partly for this reason that the
worthy woman made the most of her brief outings, to gather up any
bits of information which might serve to enliven the days to come,
and render her an object of admiration in the community where she
was passing her time. In spite of Aunt Jane's frowns, and the
efforts of Mrs. Adams to turn the conversation, she was running on
and on, helped by an occasional word from the doctor, who derived
much amusement from the old woman's visits. As Polly and Jean
seated themselves across the table from her, she glanced up to eye
them with little favor, and then went on,--
"As I was saying, I stopped in to Miss Hapgood's on my way up, and
she'd just got a letter from Kate. You remember Kate Harvey, her
sister that married Henry Shepard and went out to Omaha to live,
don't you? He's made a lot of money, but people always said he was
a miserable sort of fellow."
"Let the doctor give you some of the oysters, Miss Bean,"
interrupted Mrs. Adams desperately. "No, I don't eat oysters now;
there's no R in August," replied Miss Bean frankly.
"Unless you spell it O-r-gust," whispered Jean, in an aside which
made Polly choke over her glass of water.
"Well," resumed Miss Bean tranquilly, "Kate's got two daughters of
her own, about Molly's age, and she wants 'em to come there and
board, and go to school at Miss Webster's. I don't know's I
wonder, for I don't suppose there's any schools in them little
western towns; but Mis' Hapgood's all upset about it. I told her
she'd better take 'em, and charge a good, round price for 'em; but
she says she hasn't much room, and then she don't know how they'd
get along with Molly."
"Do you think they'll come?" inquired Polly eagerly.
"I don't know," answered Miss Bean coldly. "Mis' Hapgood hasn't
made up her mind. She sets great store by Kate, being her only
sister," she went on, turning back to the doctor; "and so I
shouldn't much wonder if she took 'em, after all. They say his
father shot himself, and--"
"Have some of these preserved plums, Miss Bean," said Mrs. Adams,
lifting the spoon persuasively.
"No, thank you. Preserves isn't very hulsome, and I don't go much
on them, excepting pie-plant and molasses," answered Miss Bean, as
she poured out her coffee into her saucer.
At this somewhat unexpected response, Jean pinched Polly's hand
under the table, and they both giggled.
"Some folks," continued Miss Bean reflectively, "say it's a coward
that commits suicide; but, my soul and body! I think it's just the
other way; I never should get up spunk enough." Then, with an
abrupt change of subject, she added: "Speaking of folks dying, I
see Mr. Solomon Baxter as I was coming along. He's aged a good
deal since his wife died, and no wonder, poor man! with all his
six children to look out for. He shook hands with me, and he
seemed so all cut up when I told him how lonesome he looked, that
I says to him: 'Mr. Baxter, why don't you get married again?
There's lots of good women left, as many as there ever was. Why
don't you take Miss Roberts, now? She'd manage your children for
you, I'll warrant.'"
This was too much for the doctor and the girls, and they burst out
laughing, while Aunt Jane remarked stiffly,--
"Thank you, Miss Bean; but I have no present desire to be
married."
"Well, I didn't know but what you might think 'twas a case of
duty," responded Miss Bean grimly.
As soon as the meal was over, Polly and Jean adjourned to the lawn
again, and sat down to discuss the situation, for they were both
much excited over the possible coming of Molly's cousins.
"I saw some pictures of them, once," said Polly, as she settled
herself in the hammock. "They were pretty, and they were just
elegantly dressed, with piles of lace and things, and gold chains
round their necks."
"Miss Bean said they had lots of money," said Jean thoughtfully.
"Yes," answered Polly; "and they looked as if they had it all on..
Mamma says 'tisn't a good idea for young girls to wear jewelry,
and she won't let me have any at all, but just these." As she
spoke, Polly touched the string of gold beads that lay closely
about her throat. They had been her great-grandmother's beads, and
Polly had received them for her name.
"I shouldn't wonder if they did that more out West," said Jean.
"How old are they, Polly?"
"One is older than Molly," answered Polly "and the other is about
Alan's age. Molly hasn't ever seen them, for they've always lived
out there I hope they won't come, though," she added emphatically.
"Why not?" inquired Jean. "If they're nice I think it would be fun
to have them here."
"I don't," said Polly. "There are just enough of us, as it is; and
if they were here, we shouldn't get any good of Molly."
"It won't make any difference, if they don't go to the same school
with us. And besides, you said this morning that you couldn't bear
Molly," said Jean a little maliciously.
"You know I never meant any such thing, Jean," said Polly
impatiently. "I like Molly Hapgood better than any other girl in
this town, and you know that just as well as I do."
"What about me?" inquired Jean, laughing, for she was accustomed
to Polly's moods, and was by no means angry at the alarming
frankness of her reply, as she said tragically,--
"I like you ever so much, Jean; but, honestly, I like Molly
better, when she's nice, for we've always been together; and I
don't want these dreadful girls to come in between us."
"I don't believe they will, any more than Florence and I do," said
Jean soothingly.
At the mention of Florence's name, Polly straightened up, and
looked right into Jean's eyes.
"Jean Dwight," said she, "if you'll never, never tell, I am going
to say something to you that I never told anybody before."
"What is it?" asked Jean curiously.
"You promise not to tell?"
"Why, of course, if you don't want me to."
"Well," said Polly, in a whisper, "I think Florence is a perfect
little flat. There! I suppose mamma would say I was as bad as Miss
Bean, with all her gossip, but I can't help it, it's true. But
don't let's talk about it any more, it makes me so cross. Perhaps
they won't come, anyway."
"Here comes Alan," said Jean, glancing up as the boy turned in at
the gate; "maybe he can tell us something about them." In fact,
the lad had come to see Polly for no other purpose than to talk
the matter over with her, for Polly was his truest friend in the
V, and the two children exchanged confidences with the same simple
good-fellowship they might have shown, had they both been girls.
Polly never snubbed Alan because he was younger, as Molly did, but
invariably stood as his champion when the other girls scolded him,
and tried to send him away; and Alan, on his side, never rubbed
Polly the wrong way, but respected her quick temper. Of course he
teased her, as every natural boy teases the girls with whom he is
thrown; but it was a gay, good-natured sort of teasing that never
irritated Polly in the least. During his long, rheumatic fever of
the winter before, she had been a most devoted friend, dropping in
to see him at all sorts of odd hours, to amuse him with her merry
nonsense, and had greatly disgusted the girls by frankly
announcing her preference for his society over their own. And Alan
returned the compliment with interest, declaring that he would
"rather have Poll in one of her tantrums than the rest of them
with all their best manners."
He came deliberately across the lawn, with his black and white
striped cap cocked on the very back of his head, and his hands in
the side pockets of his gray coat, and calmly disregarding the
curiosity of the girls, he made no attempt to speak until he had
comfortably settled himself on the grass at their feet.
"Well," he inquired at length, after he had arranged himself to
his liking, with his hands clasped under his yellow head; "what is
it you want to know?"
"Everything," demanded Polly, comprehensively.
"All right," he answered, lazily shutting his eyes. "The earth is
the planet on which we live, and is about twenty-five thousand
miles round; a decimal fraction is one whose denominator is ten,
one hundred, one thousand, or and so forth; America was discovered
in--"
"Oh, Alan, do be sensible if you can," said Jean. "We know all
that stuff. What we want is to hear about these cousins of yours
that are coming."
"How did you know anything about them?" asked the boy, in
surprise.
"Miss Bean is here," answered Polly. "She went to see your mother
on the way, and heard about it." "Oh."
There was a world of disgust in Alan's tone. Presently he went
on,--
"Well, everybody will have to hear of it now. I came over to tell
you, Poll, but it seems that old woman is in ahead."
"Are they really coming, then?" asked Polly anxiously.
"Hope not," said Alan, rolling over on his face and pulling up a
handful of grass; "girls enough round already."
"That's not polite," returned Polly; "but go on."
"There isn't any on," said Alan. "All there is about it is that
they want to come, and I'm afraid mother is going to let them.
Molly likes it, but I don't want them round in the way. I know
they'll be prim and fussy, without any fun in them. I believe I'll
come over here and live."
"Come on," said Polly hospitably; then she proceeded in a moral
tone, "But, Alan, you ought not to talk so about them, for they're
your cousins, and you ought to like your relations, you know."
"Do you like Aunt Jane?" inquired Alan, suddenly rolling over to
face her once more.
But Polly was spared the necessity of making any reply, by a
sudden voice behind her.
"And so this is your garden, Mrs. Adams! It's a likely place for
petunias and sweet williams, but I don't think much of those new-
fangled things," pointing to a brilliant bed of dwarf nasturtiums
near by. Then she went on in a sing-song tone,--
"'So I've come out to view the land
Where I must shortly lie.'"
"Needn't think I expect to lie in your garden, though," she hastily
added, evidently fearful of being misunderstood.
"Hush, Alan! you must not laugh at her," said Polly, stifling her
own merriment as best she could.
But Miss Bean, absorbed in her eloquence, had passed on out of
hearing, and Jean returned to the charge.
"Come, Alan, there's a dear boy," she began persuasively, "tell us
about the girls."
"I don't know much about them," answered Alan. "Katharine is the
older one, about fifteen, and Jessie is just my age. Her birthday
is the third and mine the seventh. I suppose they're well enough,
but their pictures look a little toploftical, and I'm not over
fond of that kind. They are going to bring their pony, if they
come, and that will be fun, if mother will only let me ride him."
"You'll get your neck broken," predicted Polly. "Do you remember
the day we tried to ride Job, and he lay down and rolled us off?"
"That was your fault," returned Alan; "if you hadn't gripped his
mane so, he'd have been all right. Well," he added, sitting up and
stretching himself, "mother sent me to the market, and I s'pose I
must go, but I thought I'd just stop in a minute."
"Oh, dear! how I wish I had a brother!" sighed Polly, watching his
boyish figure, as he sauntered away across the grass.
"Yes," said Jean slowly, as she thought of the four little
brothers at home, "it is nice, but it has its drawbacks, Polly.
When they all want to do the same thing at the same time, and
can't wait a minute, why, then it doesn't seem quite so
agreeable."
In the warm twilight, Mrs. Adams and Polly sat on the broad
piazza. Miss Bean had taken her departure, long before, and Jean
had gone home to help her mother get supper and put the younger
children to bed. The birds were twittering their last sleepy good
nights, and two or three little stars were faintly showing in the
blue sky above the dark mountain, while scores of tiny fireflies
were dotting the air below.
"There, Jerusalem!" Polly was saying triumphantly, as she perched
herself on the broad arm of her mother's piazza chair; "now
everybody is out of the way, and I can have you all to myself."
"What is it to-night?" inquired Mrs. Adams, laughing, as she
pulled her light shawl over her shoulders to keep out the evening
air.
"Lots of things, mamma," answered Polly, with a sudden
thoughtfulness; "there's been a good deal to-day."
"About Molly's cousins, for instance?" asked Mrs. Adams.
"Yes," replied Polly; "I don't think we want them, mamma. I know
they won't fit in a bit. And Alan says he doesn't want them."
"That's not quite fair of Alan," said her mother: "he oughtn't to
say so without knowing anything more about them. But, Polly, you
may find them pleasant friends, and like them better than you do
Molly."
Polly shook her head with decision.
"I'm sure I shan't. But I'm afraid Molly will like them better
than she does us."
"Jealous, Polly?" And there was a tone of regret in her mother's
voice as she went on: "I am a little disappointed in my daughter.
Of course, Polly, Molly will be thrown with them a great deal,
much more than with you; and, so long as they are her cousins, she
will probably be fond of them. But, after all these years, can't
you trust Molly's friendship enough to believe that it won't make
any difference in her feeling to you, but that she can love and
care for you all, at the same time?"
"Sometimes I think she can, and sometimes I think she can't,'"
said Polly slowly. "Once in a while, when we have had a 'scrap,'
as Alan calls it, I think she doesn't care a bit about me."
"Whose fault is it, when you quarrel?" asked Mrs. Adams, smoothing
the short curls. "I don't think it is all Molly's fault, any more
than it is all yours. If my small daughter wants her friends to
care for her, she must govern that temper and study self-control."
"I know that, mamma," broke in Polly impetuously; "but you don't
have any idea how hard 'tis, nor how sorry I am after it is over."
"It is just because I do know it so well, my dear, that I keep
saying this to you; for I hope I can save you from a part, at
least, of the pain I have suffered in just this same way. I have
been through it all, Polly, and I know that every time you give up
to your temper, it is just so much easier to do it again; and if
you were to go on long enough, in time you would get to where it
would be impossible to stop yourself, and you would do something
that might be a sorrow to you, through all your life. It is just
so with every habit; the more you give way to it, the more it
becomes a part of your nature. That is the reason I am trying to
help you form the habit of a quiet, even temper. And now," added
Mrs. Adams, changing the subject, "what else was there that we
wanted to talk over?"
"'Twas Jean," said Polly, as she slipped down on the floor at her
mother's feet. "Miss Bean was twitting her to-day because she
wasn't rich." And Polly repeated the little conversation which had
taken place under the trees.
Mrs. Adams listened thoughtfully. When Polly had finished, she
said decidedly,--
"That was rather uncalled for, I think, Polly. Whatever Jean's
parents may be, they are really refined people, and Jean is at
heart a lady."
"What difference does it make, anyway?" asked Polly impatiently.
"Not so much as most people think," said Mrs. Adams. "If your
parents are cultivated people, it helps you to make something of
yourself; and whatever teaching you get from them is so much stock
in trade, just as money would be, if you were starting in
business. If, when you have this start, you don't make the most of
it, it shows that you are unworthy of it; and if you become a
grand woman without it, then you deserve ever so much more credit
than the people who have had everything in their favor. Do you
understand me, Polly?"
"Yes, I think I do," said Polly. "And it doesn't make any
difference whether we are rich or poor, does it?"
Her mother paused for a moment, as if the question were a hard one
to answer. Polly had a way of asking deeper questions than she
realized. Mrs. Adams rocked back and forth in silence two or three
times; then she said,--
"Yes and no, Polly. Money in itself doesn't make the least bit of
difference; but people that have it can make more of themselves,--
I don't say that they do, remember. If Jean didn't have to wash so
many dishes nor mend so many stockings, she could give more time
to study and reading every year. But, after all, I don't believe
she would be half so fine, unselfish a girl as she is now, when
she has to give up doing what she likes, to help her mother. It is
just the same whether it is money, or family, or a fine mind, or
beauty; the more that is given you, the more you are expected to
make of it, and the more the shame to you if you neglect it. But
we're getting into very deep subjects for so near bed-time. What
did Alan come for?"
"Just to tell me about the girls," said Polly. "He says they're
going to have a pony, and everything."
"How well Alan has been, all summer," remarked her mother.
There was a sudden click of the gate-latch, and a tall figure came
up the walk.
"Sitting here in the damp, Isabel, and catching your death of
cold! I can't afford time to sit around in the dark doing nothing,
when I think of all the good that can be done around us." And Aunt
Jane stalked past them into the house, and sat down to cut the
leaves of the last scientific magazine.
However, though Mrs. Adams did not reply, she had made up her mind
that her usual goodnight talk with Polly was far more important
than all the clubs in the world, and no words from Aunt Jane could
induce her to give up her nightly habit.