CHAPTER XVII
MISS BEAN'S VISIT IS RETURNED.
Still another month had passed and it was late in May when, one bright Saturday morning, Jessie, Polly, and Alan drove away through the town and out over the western hills. Cob was as full of life and spirits as they were, and they went gaily onward with no particular destination in view, but only intent on enjoying the soft, warm air and the abundance of spring life all about them. Birds in every tree, green leaves and bright blossoms on every hand, and over them all the clear, yellow sunlight, these were enough for the happy young people in the carriage.
"Dear me!" sighed Polly. "When we begin to have days like this, it does seem as if vacation never, never would come. I can't bear to stay in school and work over books in such weather. I'd much rather stay outside and watch things grow."
"Let's cut school for the rest of the term, Polly," suggested Alan, "and take Job and drive off out of the world somewhere, and not come back till winter."
"Thank you, no. I'll take Cob, if Jessie is willing, for we couldn't get outside of the town with Job, if we had any idea of getting back by Christmas," rejoined Polly, laughing.
"Take Cob and welcome, if I can go with you," said Jessie. "Seems to me I never felt so before, but I don't want to stay in school any more than Polly does. Perhaps it's because your springs are pleasanter than ours."
"I shouldn't wonder if they were," said Polly reflectively, as regardless of freckles, she took off her hat and let the sun strike full upon her ruddy curls. "Isn't this perfect?" she added, with a sigh of content. "I do believe everything is nicer in Massachusetts than it is anywhere else. I'm glad I happened to be born in the Bay State."
Jessie laughed outright at the fervor of her tone. Then she said, as she drew Cob down to a slow walk, to enjoy a bit of road that lay under a group of tall pines,—
"After all, I shall be sorry to have vacation come, for as soon as this term is over, we shall have to go home, and I don't want to, one bit."
"Sorry to leave me, aren't you, Cousin Jessie?" asked Alan, with, mock sentiment.
"Don't flatter yourself, young man," said Polly, in parenthesis, as Jessie went on. seriously,—
"Why, yes, I suppose I shall miss you, Alan; but it's the girls that I care most for. We've had such good times doing things together, and next year I shall be forlorn enough, for Kit will come out, and I shall be left all to myself."
"Come back here," suggested Alan quite hospitably, considering the frank way in which Jessie had spoken of her slight regret at leaving him.
"Without Kit? Never!" replied Jessie earnestly. "I'd rather be with her and have only a dozen words a day from her, than have to be separated from her. I've always been fond of her, but it seems to me she was never half so lovely as she's been this last year."
Polly stepped on Alan's toe, under cover of the robe, and was met by an answering flash from the gray eyes, but neither spoke, as Jessie continued,—"You do so many more things here, and have so much better times, you girls, that Kit and I both wish papa and mamma would come back here to live. Omaha is pleasant enough, and the river is lovely,—when it isn't muddy; but I shall miss these hills and the elms and the lazy look of the old town. I like old things best. And what do you suppose I shall miss, most of all?"
"Job" and "Aunt Jane," suggested Alan and Polly, in a breath.
"You're too bad to laugh at me." And Jessie tried to pout, but it was too hard work, so she gave up the attempt and laughed instead. "No, it's the garret at your house, Alan, with all the old spinning wheels and warming pans. Some day, when I get my cats, I'll come back here to live, see if I don't." And Jessie nodded with decision as she started up Cob once more.
"Oh, dear! Next year doesn't mean much fun for me," groaned Polly. "I shall have to begin Latin and Greek and all sorts of dreadful things, so as to get ready for college."
"Then you are really going," said Jessie. "What makes you do it, if you don't want to?"
"It's been the family plan ever since I was a baby," said Polly; "and there's no use in trying to change it. Besides, I don't think I mind it much, or shan't when I once get there. I want to know a few things when. I'm grown up, even if I'm not a lawyer or a doctor,—but I'm going to leave that for Alan,"
"Don't worry about that, Polly," said Alan. "At present rate of progress, if I lose a month or two of school every winter, I shouldn't get through college till long after you were dead and out of the way. And then, I don't think I want to be a doctor, anyway."
"Now, Alan," retorted Polly; "that's not quite fair of you, when you know how my heart is set on having you. a splendid doctor, and in time taking papa's place. I've told you, time and time again, that if I had a brother, he would have to be one; and, as long as I haven't, you're the next best thing. You'd make such a splendid one, too. I know, for I asked papa if you wouldn't, and he said yes. He said—" Polly came to a sudden pause.
"Said what, Poll? Out with it."
"I wasn't going to tell, for fear 'twould make you conceited," returned Polly; "but if I thought it would make any difference with your plans, I'd run the risk, only you must be really in earnest about it, Alan, and think it all over. He said you had just the character that goes to make a good doctor, brave and true and unselfish, and always gentle and calm and jolly. Now doesn't that make you want to be something grand?" And Polly turned to look at the boy, with all her earnestness, all her love for him lighting her face and beautifying it, in spite of the brown freckles on her cheeks.
Alan's face flushed and his eyes were shining, as he asked eagerly,—
"Did Dr. Adams really say all that about me?"
"Yes, he said so only the other day, and I suppose I oughtn't to have told you; but, ever since our talk one day last winter when you'd been to the hospital, I've been hoping and hoping that some day you'd be just the right kind of a doctor, one that cures his patients, whether they can pay or not, and makes them love him, in spite of the horrid things he has to do to them. If you'd only do that, Alan, I should be so proud of you."
"Should you, Poll? Well, I'll think about it, but it's too soon to make up my mind yet. Mother wants me to be a minister."
"You a minister! Why, Alan, you'd laugh, even in the middle of a sermon; and I know you'd never go to a funeral without thinking how Job went, the other day. And anyway, I'd a great deal rather be a doctor, for they do more good. Ministers talk; doctors do."
"Some ministers do," said Jessie.
"Yes, some of them; but it's their business to preach, and that's all most of them try to do. You won't hear of many ministers that get up, cold winter nights, every night for a week, to go to see one poor little croupy baby, just for love of it, and not expecting to get a cent. I don't believe that, taken year in and year out, there are many missionaries that work harder or do more good than papa does."
"Not many doctors, either," suggested Alan.
"That may be; but just his doing it proves that it can be done, if anybody is willing to try. Don't shirk that way, Alan; it isn't like you. You can do it just as well as he can, and I mean you shall, some day, if teasing can do any good."
"Do you know, Polly," said Jessie; "you've talked about it till you make me want to be a doctor, myself. I don't suppose mamma would ever let me, but I'd like to try, and I think I could do it."
"Why don't you, then?" asked Polly heartily. "I don't want to myself, and I shouldn't succeed. I should be like the old doctor papa tells about, that used to swear at his patients when they didn't mind him. I never could keep cool when things went wrong. Besides, I think it's a man's work, more than a woman's."
"I'd like to be one, and prove that you are wrong," returned
Jessie, with some spirit.
"If I really made up my mind to be a doctor, I'd be a good one, if I had to give up everything else for the sake of it; but it isn't in my line," said Polly a little regretfully. "But when you and Alan are famous all over the world, I'll go around telling everybody how I was the first one to start you in that line; and they'll all be grateful to me, even if I haven't any career, see if they aren't."
"In the meantime," said Alan, suddenly breaking off the conversation, "has anybody the slightest idea where we are?"
"I haven't," said Jessie, pulling up Cob abruptly. "I've been so busy talking and thinking that I haven't paid any attention to where we were going."
"I never saw this road before," said Polly. "It's too far out of town for Job's wanderings. But go on; we shall come to a house or a guideboard before long."
"To judge by the sun and by my appetite," remarked Alan pensively, "it must be almost noon."
"Oh, that makes me think!" exclaimed Polly. "Get up, Alan; you're right on them!"
"On what?" inquired the boy lazily, without stirring.
"On the gingersnaps. Mamma gave me some to put in my pocket, in case we should get hungry, and here you've been sitting on top of them, all the way!" There was an accent of despair in Polly's tone.
Alan rose, and she plunged her hand into her pocket.
"Just look here!" she said accusingly, as she drew out a crumpled paper bag.
Alan caught it from her hand and peered down into it.
"Pulverized gingersnaps!" he exclaimed. "Want some, Jessie?"
"I'm so hungry, I'm thankful for anything," she replied. "Let's eat up the largest pieces ourselves, Polly, and make Alan take the dust for his share, for he was the one to blame."
"I know it, and now he'll never know how good they were," returned Polly relentlessly, as the girls devoured the contents of the bag, even to the last crumb. "He deserves to go hungry."
"But what's that building over there?" asked Jessie, a little later, pointing to a great red house on the side of a distant hill.
"That? That's the poorhouse," replied Polly, after studying it for a minute or two. "I came here once with papa, ever so long ago. I'd like to know how we ever managed to get here; it's seven or eight miles from town."
"Seven or eight miles from town! And we are dying of starvation," said Alan.
"Speak for yourself, please; Jessie and I have had lunch," said Polly. "But," she went on, struck with a sudden thought, "let's go and see Miss Bean, and maybe she'll invite us to dinner. She ought to, for she's been fed at our house often enough."
Jessie fell in with the idea.
"Let's try it, anyway," she said. "I've always wanted to see what they do in such a place, and I don't believe there would be any harm in it."
"What harm could there be?" said Polly. "We needn't tell her we've come to dinner; only, if she should happen to ask us, we could stay, after she's teased a little."
Turning from the main road, they drove under the great gateway and followed a winding drive up to the very door of the house. A few old crones sat in a row by the door, chattering like so many venerable crows; but when they caught sight of the children, their voices sank to whispers, as they watched Alan spring to the ground, hold up his arms to help Polly and Jessie, and then deliberately tie Cob to the nearest post.
At sight of the women in their plain white caps and dark calico gowns, Jessie was seized with a nervous desire to laugh, and hid behind Polly, whispering,—
"You do the talking, Polly; I can't."
"But what shall I say?" returned Polly, in the same tone.
"Isn't there a matron or something?" said Jessie doubtfully. "Ask for her."
By this time, Alan had joined them and they held a hasty consultation, as a result of which Alan walked straight up to the old women. Hat in hand, and a smile on his bright, boyish face, he bowed low before them and asked if he could be directed to the matron's room. Alan's smile never failed to move a woman's heart, no matter whether she was old or young. In the present instance, one of the aged dames tottered to her feet, saying,—
"Bless your heart, sonny! I'll show you, myself, to pay for your sweet manners." And she toddled away, followed by the girls and by Alan whose sweet manners had collapsed into a stifled giggle at the unlooked-for compliment.
They were taken into a long, wide hall through the middle of which ran a strip of rag carpet, edged with plain wooden settees. Everything was scrupulously neat and clean, but the only ornament in sight was a stuffed poodle under a glass case, above which hung the somewhat inappropriate motto: God loveth a cheerful giver. Here they were told to sit down, while the old woman went in search of the matron. The next few moments were rather uncomfortable for all three of the children. Now that they were really inside the institution, they were a little frightened at what they had done; and yet the ridiculous side of their being there struck them so keenly that they dared not speak, for fear of being found laughing, when the all-powerful matron should make her appearance. At length she came, a trim little woman, with an earnest face and a business-like manner. At Polly's request to be allowed to see Miss Bean, she shook her head doubtfully.
"It isn't one of our regular visiting days," she began." Was your errand an important one?"
"Not very," returned Polly, with a lingering accent on the second word, as she caught the sound of a distant clatter of dishes and breathed in a vague odor of boiled beef.
"I am sorry to disappoint you," the matron went on; "and if you have come all the way from town, it is too bad to send you back without seeing her, for a minute. Call Miss Bean," she said to a servant. "What name shall I tell her?" she asked Polly.
"Polly Adams, ma'am," answered Polly.
The matron became suddenly cordial, like a snowbank under the rays of the spring sun.
"Isn't this Dr. Adams's daughter?" she asked. "I thought I saw a familiar look about the lower part of the face."
"Yes, Dr. Adams is my father," said Polly, whose hopes of staying sprang into life once more.
"Indeed! I am very glad to see you for his sake," returned the matron. "Perhaps he sent you?"
"No—o, he didn't send us; we came," faltered Polly.
"Never mind; I am glad to see you, anyway. And these are your young friends, I suppose. Wouldn't you all like to stay and have dinner here? It is almost ready," she added, in a generous burst of hospitality.
"Thank you, we should be delighted," said Alan hastily, fearing
Polly might lose the opportunity by politely hesitating.
"Well, Polly Adams, where in the name of time did you come from?" asked Miss Bean's voice behind her.
Polly turned around. Could this be Miss Bean, this little, withered figure in the calico gown and white cap? Where was the green and black gown? Where were the lace mitts and the shaker bonnet? However, there could be no doubt of Miss Bean's identity when she said, in her usual abrupt manner,—
"How's your ma? And who are these children?"
"This is Alan Hapgood," replied Polly, introducing her friends; "and this is Jessie Shepard."
"You don't say so! Henry and Kate Shepard's daughter, from out in
Omaha?"
"Yes."
Miss Bean completed Jessie's embarrassment by critically scrutinizing her from head to foot, then asking suddenly,—
"Do they dress much out in. Omaha?"
This unexpected question sent Alan, off to examine the stuffed poodle, while Miss Bean turned to Polly again.
"Did your ma send you?"
"No, ma'am," said Polly.
"Then what did you come for?" was the hospitable query.
"We were driving this way, and so we stopped to see you," answered
Polly, with a feeling of shame at her own insincerity.
"Much obliged," returned Miss Bean, with grim sarcasm; then she added, "How's your Uncle Solomon? I always thought he and Miss Roberts would come round, if I only just put 'em in a way to think of it."
Miss Bean's questions bade fair to last indefinitely, but fortunately the dinner bell sounded, and the matron came back to lead her young guests into the great dining-room, at one end of which she had arranged a small table with seats for them, and for Miss Bean who was regarded with no small degree of envy, as she took her place in this honored circle. The matron seated herself with Alan, and Jessie at her left, Polly and Miss Bean at her right, and the simple dinner of boiled beef and vegetables was brought in. Except for an occasional request for food, the meal was eaten in silence, while the old people curiously watched the matron's group, and listened eagerly to the conversation they kept up. Polly, too, was silent, gazing with a curious fascination at the long line of aged faces, some peaceful, others querulous, but all so alike that the row of them seemed to become an endless perspective of white caps and wagging jaws. Her reverie was interrupted by Miss Bean, who leaned across the table to say reprovingly to Jessie, as she refused the boiled cabbage,—
"Folks that go a-visiting hadn't ought to be difficult with their victuals."
"Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to live in such a place?" exclaimed Polly, as they drove away, after being conducted over the establishment. "I'd work and scrimp, year after year, rather than, just sit down and be supported by the town."
"Yes," answered Jessie; "but I suppose they do have real good times, in their way."
"So does a cat that eats her milk, and then goes to sleep in the sun," returned Polly. "That may be their way, but I'm thankful it isn't mine."
"I presume all they care for is to have enough to eat, and to keep warm in winter and cool in summer," said Alan. "Some of them looked as old as the Rocky Mountains, and I don't see why they shouldn't live forever, doing nothing but sun themselves."
"I'd rather live a little shorter time, and live a little harder, while I'm about it," said Polly. "I think I prefer wearing out to rusting out."
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the town once more, and drove up the street to Polly's house. Mrs. Adams was at the gate, watching for them.
"At last!" she exclaimed. "I was really getting quite anxious about you, for fear Cob had run away, or you were lost. Aren't you hungry? Where have you been?"
"Oh, no, we aren't hungry," said Alan, as he jumped out to help
Polly to the ground. "We've been to dinner at the poorhouse, and
Jessie has disgraced us all, by refusing to eat cabbage."