Part II Chapter 2 Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade
A YOUNG QUEEN
It did not work well as far as Polly was concerned. Whatever she was at home, whatever her faults and failings, whatever her wild vagaries, or unreasonable moods, she somehow or other always managed to be first. First in play, first in naughtiness, first at her lessons, the best musician, the best artist, the best housekeeper, the best originator of sports and frolics on all occasions, was Polly Maybright. From this position, however, she was suddenly dethroned. It was quite impossible for Polly to be first when Flower was in the room.
Flower Dalrymple had the ways and manners of a young queen. She was imperious, often ungracious, seldom obliging, but she had a knack of getting people to think first of her, of saying the sort of things which drew attention, and of putting every other little girl with whom she came into contact completely in the shade.
In reality, Polly was a prettier girl than Flower. Her eyes were brighter, her features more regular. But just as much in reality Polly could not hold a candle to Flower, for she had a sort of a languorous, slumberous, grace, which exactly suited her name; there was a kind of etherealness about her, an absolutely out-of-the-common look, which made people glance at her again and again, each time to discover how very lovely she was.
Flower was a perfect contrast to David, being as fair as he was dark. Her face had a delicate, creamy shade, her eyes were large and light blue, the lashes and eyebrows being only a shade or two darker than her long, straight rather dull-looking, yellow hair. She always wore her hair straight down her back; she was very willowy and pliant in figure, and had something of the grace and coloring of a daffodil.
Flower had not been a week in the Maybright family before she contrived that all the arrangements in the house should be more or less altered to suit her convenience. She made no apparent complaint, and never put her wishes into words, still she contrived to have things done to please her. For instance, long before that week was out, Polly found herself deprived of the seat she had always occupied at meals by her father’s side. Flower liked to sit near the Doctor, therefore she did so; she liked to slip her hand into his between the courses, and to look into his face with her wide-open, pathetic, sweet eyes. Flower could not touch coffee at breakfast, therefore by common consent the whole family adopted tea. In the morning-room Flower established herself in mother’s deep arm-chair, hitherto consecrated by all rights and usages to Helen. As to Polly, she was simply dethroned from her pedestal, her wittiest remarks fell flat, her raciest stories were received with languid interest. What were they compared to the thrilling adventures which the young Australian could tell when she pleased! Not, indeed, that Flower often pleased, she was not given to many words, her nature was thoroughly indolent and selfish, and only for one person would she ever really rouse and exert herself. This person was David; he worshipped her, and she loved him as deeply as it was in her nature to love any one. To all appearance, however, it mattered very little who, or how Flower loved. On all hands, every one fell in love with her. Even Polly resigned her favorite seat for her, even Helen looked without pain at mother’s beloved chair when Flower’s lissome figure filled it. The younger children were forever offering flowers and fruit at her shrine. Nurse declared her a bonny, winsome thing, and greatest honor of all, allowed her to play with little Pearl, the baby, for a few minutes, when the inclination seized her. Before she was a week in the house, not a servant in the place but would have done anything for her, and even the Doctor so far succumbed to her charms as to pronounce her a gracious and lovable creature.
“Although I can’t make her out,” he often said to himself, “I have an odd instinct which tells me that there is the sleeping lioness or the wild-cat hidden somewhere beneath all that languid, gracious carelessness. Poor little girl! she has managed to captivate us all, but I should not be surprised if she turned out more difficult and troublesome to manage than the whole of my seven daughters put together.”
As Flower and David had been sent from Australia especially to be under the care and guidance of Mrs. Maybright, the Doctor felt more and more uncertain as to the expediency of keeping the children.
“It is difficult enough to manage a girl like Polly,” he said to himself; “but when another girl comes to the house who is equally audacious and untamed—for my Polly is an untamed creature when all’s said and done—how is a poor half-blind old doctor like myself to keep these two turbulent spirits in order? I am dreadfully afraid the experiment won’t work; and yet—and yet £400 a year is sadly needed to add to the family purse just now.”
The Doctor was pacing up and down his library while he meditated. The carpet in this part of the room was quite worn from the many times he walked up and down it. Like many another man, when he was perplexed or anxious he could not keep still. There came a light tap at the library door.
“Come in!” said the Doctor; and to his surprise Flower, looking more like a tall yellow daffodil than ever, in a soft dress of creamy Indian silk, opened the door and took a step or two into the room.
She looked half-shy, half-bold—a word would have sent her flying, or a word drawn her close to the kind Doctor’s side.
“Come here, my little girl,” he said, “and tell me what you want.”
Flower would have hated any one else to speak of her as a little girl, but she pushed back her hair now, and looked with less hesitation and more longing at the Doctor.
“I thought you’d be here—I ventured to come,” she said.
“Yes, yes; there’s no venturing in the matter. Take my arm, and walk up and down with me.”
“May I, really?”
“Of course you may, puss. Now I’ll warrant anything you have walked many a carpet bare with your own father. See! this is almost in holes; those are Polly’s steps, these are mine.”
“Oh—yes—well, father isn’t that sort of man. I’ll take your arm if I may, Doctor. Thank you. I didn’t think—I don’t exactly know how to say what I want to say.”
“Take time, my dear child; and it is no matter how you put the words.”
“When I heard that there was no mother here, I did not want to stay long. That was before I knew you. Now—I came to say it—I do want to stay, and so does David.”
“But you don’t really know me at all, Flower.”
“Perhaps not really; but still enough to want to stay. May I stay?”
Flower’s charming face looked up inquiringly.
“May I stay?” she repeated, earnestly. “I do wish it!—very much indeed.”
Dr. Maybright was silent for a moment.
“I was thinking about this very point when you knocked at the door,” he said, presently. “I was wondering if you two children could stay. I want to keep you, and yet I own I am rather fearful of the result. You see, there are so many motherless girls and boys in this house.”
“But we are motherless, too; you should be sorry for us; you should wish to keep us.”
“I am very sorry for you. I have grown to a certain extent already to love you. You interest me much; still, I must be just to you and to my own children. You are not a common, everyday sort of girl, Flower. I don’t wish to flatter you, and I am not going to say whether you are nice or the reverse. But there is no harm in my telling you that you are out of the common. It is probable that you may be extremely difficult to manage, and it is possible that your disposition may—may clash with those of some of the members of my own household. I don’t say that this will be the case, mind, only it is possible. In that case, what would you expect me to do?”
“To keep me,” said Flower, boldly, “and, if necessary, send away the member of the household, for I am a motherless girl, and I have come from a long way off to be with you.”
“I don’t quite think I can do that, Flower. There are many good mothers in England who would train you and love you, and there are many homes where you might do better than here. My own children are placed here by God himself, and I cannot turn them out. Still—what is the matter, my dear child?”
“I think you are unjust; I thought you would be so glad when I said I wanted to stay.”
“So I am glad; and for the present you are here. How long you remain depends on yourself. I have no intention of sending you away at present. I earnestly wish to keep you.”
Another tap came to the study door.
“If you please, sir,” said Alice, “blind Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen, and wants to know most particular if she can see you.”
“How ridiculous!” said Flower, laughing.
“Show Mrs. Jones in here, Alice,” said the Doctor.
His own face had grown a shade or two paler.
“Blind people often speak in that way, Flower,” he said, with a certain intonation in his voice which made her regard him earnestly.
The memory of a rumor which had reached her ears with regard to the Doctor’s own sight flashed before her. She stooped suddenly, and with an impulsive, passionate gesture kissed his hand.
Outside the room David was waiting.
“Well, Flower, well?” he asked, with intense eagerness.
“I spoke to him,” said Flower. “We are here on sufferance, that’s all. He is the dearest man in all the world, but he is actually afraid of me.”
“You are rather fierce at times, you know, Flower. Did you tell him about—about——”
“About what, silly boy?”
“About the passions. You know, Flower, we agreed that he had better know.”
A queer steely light came into Flower’s blue eyes.
“I didn’t speak of them,” she said. “If I said anything of that sort I’d soon be packed away. I expect he’s in an awful fright about that precious Polly of his.”
“But Polly is nice,” interposed David.
“Oh, yes, just because she has a rather good-looking face you go over to her side. I’m not at all sure that I like her. Anyhow, I’m not going to play second fiddle to her. There now, Dave, go and play. We’re here on sufferance, so be on your good behavior. As to me, you need not be the least uneasy. I wish to remain at Sleepy Hollow, so, of course, the passions won’t come. Go and play, Dave.”
Firefly called across the lawn. David bounded out of the open window, and Flower went slowly up to her own room.
There came a lovely day toward the end of October; St. Martin’s summer was abroad, and the children, with the Doctor’s permission, had arranged to take a long expedition across one of the southern moors in search of late blackberries. They took their dinner with them, and George, the under-gardener, accompanied the little party for protection. Nurse elected, as usual, to stay at home with baby, for nothing would induce her to allow this treasured little mortal out of her own keeping; but the Doctor promised, if possible, to join the children at Troublous Times Castle at two o’clock for dinner. This old ruin was at the extreme corner of one of the great commons, and was a very favorite resort for picnics, as it still contained the remains of a fine old banqueting-hall, where in stormy or uncertain weather a certain amount of shelter could be secured.
The children started off early, in capital spirits. A light wind was blowing; the sky was almost cloudless. The tints of late autumn were still abroad in great glory, and the young faces looked fresh, careless, and happy.
Just at the last moment, as they were leaving the house, an idea darted through Polly’s brain.
“Let’s have Maggie,” she said. “I’ll go round by the village and fetch her. She would enjoy coming with us so much, and it would take off her terror of the moor. Do you know, Helen, she is such a silly thing that she has been quite in a state of alarm ever since the day we went to the hermit’s hut. I won’t be a moment running to fetch Mag; do let’s have her. Firefly, you can come with me.”
Maggie, who now resided with her mother, not having yet found another situation—for Mrs. Power had absolutely declined to have her back in the kitchen—was a favorite with all the children. They were pleased with Polly’s proposal, and a chorus of “Yes, by all means, let’s have Maggie!” rose in the air.
Flower was standing a little apart; she wore a dark green close-fitting cloth dress; on her graceful golden head was a small green velvet cap. She was picking a late rose to pieces, and waiting for the others with a look of languid indifference on her face. Now she roused herself, and asked in a slightly weary voice:
“Who is Maggie?”
“Maggie?” responded Helen, “she was our kitchenmaid; we are all very fond of her—Polly especially.”
“Fond of a kitchen-maid? I don’t suppose you mean that, Helen,” said Flower. “A kitchen-maid’s only a servant.”
“I certainly mean it,” said Helen, with a little warmth. “I am more or less fond of all our servants, and Maggie used to be a special favorite.”
“How extraordinary!” said Flower. “The English nation have very queer and plebeian ways about them; it’s very plebeian to take the least notice of servants, except to order them to obey you.”
“On the contrary,” retorted Polly; “it’s the sign of a true lady or gentleman to be perfectly courteous to their dependents, and if they deserve love, to give it to them. I’m fond of Maggie; she’s a good little girl, and she shall come to our picnic. Come along, Firefly.”
“I certainly will have nothing to say to Polly while she associates with a servant,” said Flower, slowly, and with great apparent calmness. “I don’t suppose we need all wait for her here. She can follow with the servant when she gets her. I suppose Polly’s whims are not to upset the whole party.”
“Polly will very likely catch us up at the cross-roads,” said Helen, in a pleasant voice. “Come, Flower, you won’t really be troubled with poor little Maggie; she will spend her day probably with George, and will help him to wash up our dinner-things after we have eaten. Come, don’t be vexed, Flower.”
“I vexed!” said Flower. “You are quite mistaken. I don’t intend to have anything to say to Polly while she chooses a kitchen-maid for her friend, but I dare say the rest of you can entertain me. Now, Mabel and Dolly, shall I tell you what we did that dark night when David and I stole out through the pantry window?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed the twins. The others all clustered round eagerly.
Flower had a very distinct voice, and when she roused herself she could really be eloquent. A daring little adventure which she and her brother had experienced lost nothing in the telling, and when Polly, Firefly, and Maggie, joined the group, they found themselves taken very little notice of, for all the other children, even Helen, were hanging on Flower’s words.
“Oh, I say, that isn’t fair!” exclaimed Polly, whose spirits were excellent. “You’re telling a story, Flower, and Firefly and I have missed it. Maggie loves stories, too; don’t you, Mag? Do begin again, please, Flower, please do!”
Flower did not even pretend to hear Polly’s words—she walked straight on, gesticulating a little now and then, now and then raising her hand in a slightly dramatic manner. Her clear voice floated back to Polly as she walked forward, the center of an eager, worshipping, entranced audience.
Polly’s own temper was rather hasty, she felt her face flushing, angry words were bubbling to her lips, and she would have flown after the little party who were so utterly ignoring her, if David had not suddenly slipped back and put his hand on her arm.
“I know the story,” he said; “so I needn’t stay to listen. She’s adding to it awfully. We didn’t use any ropes, the window is only three feet from the ground, and the awful howling and barking of the mastiff was made by the shabbiest little cur. Flower is lovely, but she does dress up her stories. I love Flower, but I’ll walk with you now, if you’ll let me, Polly.”
“You’re very kind, David,” said Polly. “But I don’t know that I want any one to walk with me, except Maggie. I think Flower was very rude just now. Oh, you can stay if you like, David—I don’t mind, one way or another. Isn’t this south moor lovely, Maggie? Aren’t you glad I asked you to come with us?”
“Well, yes, Miss, I be. It was good-natured of you, Miss Polly, only if there’s stories a-going, I’d like to be in at them. I does love narrations of outlandish places, Miss. Oh, my word, and is that the little foreign gentleman? It is a disappointment as I can’t ’ear what the young lady’s a-telling of.”
“Well, Maggie, you needn’t be discontented. I am not hearing this wonderful story, either. David, what are you nudging me for?”
“Send her to walk with George,” whispered David. “I want to say something to you so badly, Polly.”
Polly frowned. She did not feel particularly inclined to oblige any one just now, but David had a pleading way of his own; he squeezed her arm affectionately, and looked into her face with a world of beseeching in his big black eyes. After all it was no very difficult matter to get at Polly’s warm heart. She looked over her shoulder.
“George, will you give Maggie a seat beside you,” she said. “No, none of the rest of us want to drive. Come on, David. Now, David, what is it?”
“It’s about Flower,” said David. “She—she—you don’t none of you know Flower yet.”
“Oh, I am not sure of that,” replied Polly, speaking on purpose in a very careless tone. “I suppose she’s much like other girls. She’s rather pretty, of course, and has nice ways with her. I made stories about you both, but you’re not a bit like anything I thought of. In some ways you’re nicer, in some not so nice. Why, what is the matter, David? What are you staring at me so hard for?”
“Because you’re all wrong,” responded David. “You don’t know Flower. She’s not like other girls; not a bit. There were girls at Ballarat, and she wasn’t like them. But no one wondered at that, for they were rough, and not like real ladies. And there were girls on board the big ship we came over in, and they weren’t rough, but Flower wasn’t a bit like them either. And she’s not like any of you, Polly, although I’m sure you are nice, and Helen is sweet, and Fly is a little brick. Flower is not like any other girl I have ever seen.”
“She must be an oddity, then,” said Polly. “I hate oddities. Do let’s walk a little faster, David.”
“You are wrong again,” persisted David, quickening his steps. “An oddity is some one to laugh at, but no one has ever dreamed of laughing at Flower. She is just herself, like no one else in the world. No, you don’t any of you know her yet. I suppose you are every one of you thinking that she’s the very nicest and cleverest and perfectest girl you ever met?”
“I’m sure we are not,” said Polly. “I think, for my part, there has been a great deal too much fuss made about her. I’m getting tired of her airs, and I think she was very rude just now.”
“Oh, don’t, Polly, you frighten me. I want to tell you something so badly. Will you treat it as a great, enormous secret? will you never reveal it, Polly?”
“What a queer boy you are,” said Polly. “No, I won’t tell. What’s the mystery?”
“It’s this. Flower is sometimes—sometimes—oh, it’s dreadful to have to tell!—Flower is sometimes not nice.”
Polly’s eyes danced.
“You’re a darling, David!” she said. “Of course, that sister of yours is not perfect. I’d hate her if she was.”
“But it isn’t that,” said David. “It’s so difficult to tell. When Flower isn’t nice, it’s not a small thing, it’s—oh, she’s awful! Polly, I don’t want any of you ever to see Flower in a passion; you’d be frightened, oh, you would indeed. We were all dreadfully unhappy at Ballarat when Flower was in a passion, and lately we tried not to get her into one. That’s what I want you to do, Polly; I want you to try; I want you to see that she is not vexed.”
“I like that,” said Polly. “Am I to be on my ‘P’s and Q’s’ for this Miss Flower of yours? Now, David, what do you mean by a great passion? I’m rather hot myself. Come, you saw me very cross about the lemonade yesterday; is Flower worse than that? What fun it must be to see her!”
“Don’t!” said David, turning pale. “You wouldn’t speak in that way, Polly, if you knew. What you did yesterday like Flower? Why, I didn’t notice you at all. Flower’s passions are—are—— But I can’t speak of them, Polly.”
“Then why did you tell me?” said Polly. “I can’t help her getting into rages, if she’s so silly.”
“Oh, yes, you can, and that’s why I spoke to you. She’s a little vexed now, about your having brought the—the kitchen-maid here. I know well she’s vexed, because she’s extra polite with every one else. That’s a way she has at first. I don’t suppose she’ll speak to you, Polly; but oh, Polly, I will love you so much, I’ll do anything in all the world for you, if only you’ll send Maggie home!”
“What are you dreaming of?” said Polly. “Because Flower is an ill tempered, proud, silly girl, am I to send poor little Maggie away? No, David, if your sister has a bad temper, she must learn to control it. She is living in England now, and she must put up with our English ways; we are always kind to our servants.”
“Then it can’t be helped,” said David. “You’ll remember that I warned you—you’ll be sorry afterwards! Hullo, Flower—yes, Flower, I’m coming.”
He flew from Polly’s side, going boldly over to what the little girl was now pleased to call the ranks of the enemy. She felt sorry for a moment, for Firefly had long since deserted her. Then she retraced her steps, and walked by Maggie’s side for the rest of the time.