Part I Chapter 8 Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade
SHOULD THE STRANGERS COME?
Helen and Polly were seated together in the pleasant morning-room. Helen occupied her mother’s chair, her feet were on a high footstool, and by her side, on a small round table, stood a large basket filled with a heterogeneous collection of odd socks and stockings, odd gloves, pieces of lace and embroidery, some wool, a number of knitting needles, in short, a confused medley of useful but run-to-seed-looking articles which the young housekeeper was endeavoring to reduce out of chaos into order.
“Oh, Polly, how you have tangled up all this wool; and where’s the fellow of this gray glove? And—Polly, Polly—here’s the handkerchief you had such a search for last week. Now, how often do you intend me to put this basket in order for you?”
“Once a week, dear, if not oftener,” answered Polly, in suave tones. “Please don’t speak for a moment or two, Nell. I’m so much interested in this new recipe for pie-crust. You melt equal portions of lard and butter in so much boiling water—that’s according to the size of the pie; then you mix it into the flour, kneading it very well—and—and—and—” Polly’s voice dropped to a kind of buzz, her head sank lower over the large cookery-book which she was studying; her elbows were on the table, her short curling hair fell over her eyes, and a dimpled hand firmly pressed each cheek.
Helen sighed slightly, and returned with a little gesture of resignation to the disentangling of Polly’s work-basket. As she did so she seated herself more firmly in her mother’s arm-chair. Her little figure looked slight in its deep and ample dimensions, and her smooth fair face was slightly puckered with anxiety.
“Polly,” she said, suddenly; “Polly, leave that book alone. There’s more in the world than housekeeping and pie-crust. Do you know that I have discovered something, and I think, I really do think, that we ought to go on with it. It was mother’s plan, and father will always agree to anything she wished.”
Polly shut up Mrs. Beaton’s cookery-book with a bang, rose from her seat at the table, and opening the window sat down where the wind could ruffle her hair and cool her hot cheeks.
“This is Friday,” she said, “and my duties begin on Monday. Helen, pie-crust is not unimportant when success or failure hangs upon it; puddings may become vital, Helen, and, as to cheesecakes, I would stake everything I possess in the world on the manner in which father munches my first cheesecake. Well, dear, never mind; I’ll try and turn my distracted thoughts in your direction for a bit. What’s the discovery?”
“Only,” said Helen, “that I think I know what makes father look so gray, and why he has a stoop, and why his eyes seem so sunken. Of course there is the loss of our mother, but that is not the only trouble. I think he has another, and I think also, Polly, that he had this other trouble before mother died, and that she helped him to bear it, and made plans to lighten it for him. You remember what one of her plans was, and how we weren’t any of us too well pleased. But I have been thinking lately, since I began to guess father’s trouble, that we ought to carry it out just the same as if our mother was with us.”
“Yes,” said Polly. “You have a very exciting way of putting things, Nell, winding one up and up, and not letting in the least little morsel of light. What is father’s trouble, and what was the plan? I can’t remember any plan, and I only know about father that he’s the noblest of all noble men, and that he bears mother’s loss—well, as nobody else would have borne it. What other trouble has our dear father, Nell? God wouldn’t be so cruel as to give him another trouble.”
“God is never cruel,” said Helen, a beautiful, steadfast light shining in her eyes. “I couldn’t let go the faith that God is always good. But father—oh, Polly, Polly, I am dreadfully afraid that father is going to lose his sight.”
“What?” said Polly. “What? father lose his sight? No, I’m not going to listen to you, Nell. You needn’t talk like that. It’s perfectly horrid of you. I’ll go away at once and ask him. Father! Why, his eyes are as bright as possible. I’ll go this minute and ask him.”
“No, don’t do that, Polly. I would never have spoken if I wasn’t really sure, and I don’t think it would be right to ask him, or to speak about it, until he tells us about it himself. But I began to guess it a little bit lately, when I saw how anxious mother seemed. For she was anxious, although she was the brightest of all bright people. And after her death father said I was to look through some of her letters; and I found one or two which told me that what I suspected was the case, and father may—indeed, he probably will—become quite blind, by-and-by. That was—that was—What’s the matter, Polly?”
“Nothing,” said Polly. “You needn’t go on—you needn’t say any more. It’s a horrid world, nothing is worth living for; pie-crust, nor housekeeping, nor nothing. I hate the world, and every one in it, and I hate you most of all, Nell, for your horrid news. Father blind! No, I won’t believe it; it’s all a lie.”
“Poor Polly,” said Helen. “Don’t believe it, dear, I wish I didn’t. I think I know a little bit how you feel. I’m not so hot and hasty and passionate as you, and oh, I’m not half, nor a quarter, so clever, but still, I do know how you feel; I—Polly, you startle me.”
“Only you don’t hate me at this moment,” said Polly. “And I—don’t I hate you, just! There, you can say anything after that. I know I’m a wretch—I know I’m hopeless. Even mother would say I was hopeless if she saw me now, hating you, the kindest and best of sisters. But I do, yes, I do, most heartily. So you see you aren’t like me, Helen.”
“I certainly never hated any one,” said Helen. “But you are excited, Polly, and this news is a shock to you. We won’t talk about it one way or other, now, and we’ll try as far as possible not to think of it, except in so far as it ought to make us anxious to carry out mother’s plan.”
Polly had crouched back away from the window, her little figure all huddled up, her cheeks with carnation spots on them, and her eyes, brimful of the tears which she struggled not to shed, were partly hidden by the folds of the heavy curtain which half-enveloped her.
“You were going to say something else dreadfully unpleasant,” she remarked. “Well, have it out. Nothing can hurt me very much just now.”
“It’s about the strangers,” said Helen. “The strangers who were to come in October. You surely can’t have forgotten them, Polly.”
Like magic the thunder-cloud departed from Polly’s face. The tears dried in her bright eyes, and the curtain no longer enveloped her slight, young figure.
“Why, of course,” she said. “The strangers, how could I have forgotten! How curious we were about them. We didn’t know their names. Nothing, nothing at all—except that there were two, and that they were coming from Australia. I always thought of them as Paul and Virginia. Dear, dear, dear, I shall have more housekeeping than ever on my shoulders with them about the place.”
“They were coming in October,” said Helen, quietly. “Everything was arranged, although so little was known. They were coming in a sailing vessel, and the voyage was to be a long one, and mother, herself, was going to meet them. Mother often said that they would arrive about the second week in October.”
“In three weeks from now?” said Polly, “We are well on in September, now. I can’t imagine how we came to forget Paul and Virginia. Why, of course, poor children, they must be quite anxious to get to us. I wonder if I’d be a good person to go and meet them. You are so shy with strangers, you know, Nell, and I’m not. Mother used to say I didn’t know what mauvaise honte meant. I don’t say that I like meeting them, poor things, but I’ll do it, if it’s necessary. Still, Helen, I cannot make out what special plan there is in the strangers coming. Nor what it has to do with father, with that horrid piece of news you told me a few minutes ago.”
“It has a good deal to say to it, if you will only listen,” said Helen. “I have discovered by mother’s letters that the father of the strangers is to pay to our father £400 a year as long as his children live here. They were to be taught, and everything done for them, and the strangers’ father was to send over a check for £100 for them every quarter. Now, Polly, listen. Our father is not poor, but neither is he rich, and if—if what we fear is going to happen, he won’t earn nearly so much money in his profession. So it seems a great pity he should lose this chance of earning £400 a year.”
“But nobody wants him to lose it,” said Polly. “Paul and Virginia will be here in three weeks, and then the pay will begin. £400 a year—let me see, that’s just about eight pounds a week, that’s what father says he spends on the house, that’s a lot to spend, I could do it for much less. But no matter. What are you puckering your brows for, Helen? Of course the strangers are coming.”
“Father said they were not to come,” replied Helen. “He told me so some weeks ago. When they get to the docks he himself is going to meet them, and he will take them to another home which he has been inquiring about. He says that we can’t have them here now.”
“But we must have them here,” said Polly. “What nonsense! We must both of us speak to our father at once.”
“I have been thinking it over,” said Helen, in her gentle voice, “and I do really feel that it is a pity to lose this chance of helping father and lightening his cares. You see, Polly, it depends on us. Father would do it if he could trust us, you and me, I mean.”
“Well, so he can trust us,” replied Polly, glibly. “Everything will be all right. There’s no occasion to make a fuss, or to be frightened. We have got to be firm, and rather old for our years, and if either of us puts down her foot she has got to keep it down.”
“I don’t know that at all,” said Helen. “Mother sometimes said it was wise to yield. Oh, Polly, I don’t feel at all wise enough for all that is laid on me. We have to be examples in everything. I do want to help father, but it would be worse to promise to help him and then to fail.”
“I’m not the least afraid,” said Polly. “The strangers must come, and father’s purse must be filled in that jolly manner. I don’t believe the story about his eyes, Nell, but it will do him good to feel that he has got a couple of steady girls like us to see to him. Now I’m arranging a list of puddings for next week, so you had better not talk any more. We’ll speak to father about Paul and Virginia after dinner.”