Part II Chapter 15 Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade
A DILEMMA
A night’s sleep had by no means improved Mrs. Cameron’s temper. She came downstairs the next morning so snappish and disagreeable, so much inclined to find fault with everybody, and so little disposed to see the faintest gleam of light in any direction, that the children almost regretted Scorpion’s absence, and began to wonder if, after all, he was not a sort of safety-valve for Mrs. Cameron, and more or less essential to her existence.
Hitherto this good woman had not seen her brother-in-law; and it was both Helen’s and Polly’s constant aim to keep her from the sick room.
It was several days now since the Doctor was pronounced quite out of danger; but the affection of his eyes which had caused his children so many anxious fears, had become much worse. As the London oculist had told him, any shock or chill would do this; and there was now no doubt whatever that for a time, at least, he would have to live in a state of total darkness.
“It is a dreadful fate,” said Helen to Polly. “Oh, yes, it is a dreadful fate, but we must not complain, for anything is better than losing him.”
“Anything truly,” replied Polly. “Why, what is the matter, Flower? How you stare.”
Flower had been lying full-length on the old sofa in the school-room; she now sprang to her feet, and came up eagerly to the two sisters.
“Could a person do this,” she said, her voice trembling with eagerness—“Could such a thing as this be done: could one give their eyes away?”
“Flower!”
“Yes, I mean it. Could I give my eyes to Dr. Maybright—I mean just do nothing at all but read to him and look for him—manage so that he should know everything just through my eyes. Can I do it? If I can, I will.”
“But, Flower, you are not father’s daughter,” said Polly in an almost offended tone. “You speak, Flower—you speak as if he were all the world to you.”
“So he is all the world to me!” said Flower. “I owe him reparation, I owe him just everything. Yes, Helen and Polly, I think I understand how to keep your father from missing his eyes much. Oh, how glad I am, how very glad I am!”
From that moment Flower became more or less a changed creature. She developed all kinds of qualities which the Maybrights had never given her credit for. She had a degree of tact which was quite astonishing in a child of her age. There was never a jarring note in her melodious voice. With her impatience gone, and her fiery, passionate temper soothed, she was just the girl to be a charming companion to an invalid.
However restless the Doctor was, he grew quieter when Flower stole her little hand into his; and when he was far too weak and ill and suffering to bear any more reading aloud, he could listen to Flower as she recited one wild ballad after another.
Flower had found her mission, and she was seldom now long away from the Doctor’s bedside.
“Don’t be jealous, Polly,” said Helen. “All this is saving Flower, and doing father good.”
“There is one comfort about it,” said Polly, “that as Aunt Maria perfectly detests poor Flower, or Daisy, as she calls her, she is not likely to go into father’s room.”
“That is true!” said Helen. “She came to the room door the other day, but Flower was repeating ‘Hiawatha,’ and acting it a little bit—you know she can’t help acting anything she tries to recite—and Aunt Maria just threw up her hands and rolled her eyes, and went away.”
“What a comfort!” said Polly. “Whatever happens, we must never allow the dreadful old thing to come near father.”
Alack! alas! something so bad had happened, so terrible a tragedy had been enacted that even Flower and Hiawatha combined could no longer keep Mrs. Cameron away from her brother-in-law’s apartment.
On the second day after Scorpion’s disappearance, the good woman called Helen aside, and spoke some words which filled her with alarm.
“My dear!” she said, “I am very unhappy. The little dog, the little sunbeam of my life, is lost. I am convinced, Helen! yes, I am convinced, that there is foul play in the matter. You, every one of you, took a most unwarrantable dislike to the poor, faithful little animal. Yes, every one of you, with the exception of David, detested my Scorpion, and I am quite certain that you all know where he now is.”
“But really, Aunt Maria,” said Helen, her fair face flushing, “really, now, you don’t seriously suppose that I had anything to say to Scorpion’s leaving you.”
“I don’t know, my dear. I exonerate David. Yes, David is a good boy; he was attached to the dog, and I quite exonerate him. But as to the rest of you, I can only say that I wish to see your father on the subject.”
“Oh! Aunt Maria! you are not going to trouble father, so ill as he is, about that poor, miserable little dog?”
“Thank you, Helen! thank you! poor miserable little dog indeed. Ah! my dear, you have let the cat out of the bag now. Yes, my dear, I insist on seeing your father with regard to the poor, miserable little dog. Poor, indeed, am I without him, my little treasure, my little faithful Scorpion.” Here Mrs. Cameron applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and Helen walked to the window, feeling almost driven to despair.
“I think you are doing wrong!” she said, presently. “It is wrong to disturb a man like father about any dog, however noble. I am sure I am right in saying that we, none of us, know anything about Scorpion’s disappearance. However, if you like, and rather than that father should be worried, I will send for all the children, and ask them the question one by one before you. I am absolutely sure that they won’t think Scorpion worth a lie.”