LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS
BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD
CHAPTER XV
ARCTURA’S STORY
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
Polly Prentiss is an orphan who, for the greater part of her life, has lived with a distant relative, Mrs. Manser, the mistress of Manser Farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden lady of middle age, has, ever since the death of her favorite niece, been on the lookout for a little girl whom she might adopt. She is attracted by Polly’s appearance and quaint manners, and finally decides to take her home and keep her for a month’s trial. In the foregoing chapters, Polly has arrived at her new home, and the great difference between the way of living at Pomeroy Oaks and her past life affords her much food for wonderment. In the meantime Miss Pomeroy has inwardly decided that she will keep Polly with her, but as yet she has not spoken to the little girl of her intention.
ARCTURA’S prediction came true, for the first sound Polly heard when she woke the next morning was a soft, steady patter on her window-pane; the trunk of the elm tree was wet and black as if it had been raining all night. Polly was reminded of that stormy afternoon not quite two weeks ago when she had sat close to Uncle Blodgett in the old shed at Manser Farm and heard him tell about his brave young nephew who had gone to the war and died for his country.
“I wonder if they miss me?” thought the little girl at Pomeroy Oaks. “Maybe they do, because they used to say I made all the noise there was in the house. It seems a pretty long time till next winter, but if I get real well acquainted with Miss Pomeroy so I can tell her that my loving the Manser Farm folks won’t make me stop wanting to be like Eleanor, maybe she’ll let me go to see them by Thanksgiving. I wonder how my rag dollie likes it up in the garret in that tight box where Mrs. Manser put her. I expect she’s lonesome, poor dolly! And Ebenezer—I don’t persume anybody gets down on the floor to play with him, because they’ve all got rheumatism except Mrs. Manser, and she has pains in her head.”
There was no trip to the village for Miss Pomeroy and Polly that morning. Toward noon Hiram drove off in the light wagon, holding a large umbrella over his head, and returned well splashed with mud an hour or so later.
Polly spent part of the morning in the library with Miss Pomeroy, darning some stockings and a rent in the old red frock. Miss Pomeroy had a book in her hands, but almost every time the little girl looked up from her work she found the keen, gray eyes fixed on her face, and it made her uneasy. She thought there must be something unsatisfactory about her appearance, for her kind friend looked grave and troubled. Polly decided to speak.
“My hair isn’t quite as flat as it is sometimes,” she ventured, after a long silence. “Mrs. Manser used to say that she believed Satan got into it when the weather was damp, and perhaps he does. I suppose the nicest folks all have straight hair, don’t they, Miss Pomeroy?”
The only answer was a smile and a stroke of the brown curls, and Polly was instantly confirmed in her opinion, while Miss Hetty’s mind was far away.
“But, perhaps, as I get more and more like Eleanor, my hair will change just as my cheeks are changing,” she thought, hopefully. “And I think I’m stretching out a little bit, too, practicing the way Ebenezer did.”
The library was a delightful room, but the hour with Arctura before the kitchen fire in the afternoon had a different sort of charm for Polly.
“You’re so comfortable, Miss Arctura,” she said, confidingly, to Miss Green, when they were fairly settled with their work. Polly’s task was an iron-holder, and that of her hostess the flaming sock designed for Hiram’s ample foot. Miss Pomeroy was in her room, writing letters; she had many correspondents in the world outside the little town, and they kept her busy. Besides that, she had a purpose in leaving Polly with the faithful Arctura a good deal of the time.
“The child is happier with you, and I want her to be happy,” she said, with perfect frankness. “She’s a little afraid of me for some reason, and though it hurts my vanity, I don’t want to hurry her confidence. I believe I shall win it in time.”
“Of course, you will,” said Arctura, stoutly. “I can’t quite make her out sometimes. She’ll seem real gay for a few minutes and then sober down all of a sudden, as if she remembered something. She’s just as anxious to please you as ever a child could be. Do you suppose that Manser woman could have scared her any way? Told her you were set on having her act any particular way, or anything?”
Miss Pomeroy’s life had been singularly apart from the current of village gossip; she stared blankly at this suggestion and then shook her head.
“It wouldn’t be possible,” she said, decidedly. “Mrs. Manser never spoke to me until I waylaid her after church that Sunday, three or four weeks ago. And there is nobody to tell her anything of me or my ways of living. She simply knows that I took a fancy to Mary, and—since yesterday—that I wish to adopt her.”
“M-m,” said Arctura, softly, as Miss Pomeroy turned away. “I shouldn’t want to be too sure what folks know and what they don’t, in any place where there’s a post-office, two meat-men, and a baker’s cart.”
“I’ve written my letter to go with the candy to-morrow morning,” said Polly, as she basted a strip of turkey-red binding around a square of ticking after Miss Green’s instructions. “It took me ’most an hour and a half by the big clock, and I made four blots and had to look in the dictionary three times, and now I expect it’s just full of mistakes. I carried it to Miss Pomeroy, but she said she wanted Aunty Peebles to have the first reading of it, and she helped me seal it with a great splotch of red sealing-wax, and marked it with her big stamp.”
“Won’t it mix ’em all up to see a ‘P’ on the letter?” inquired Arctura. “Why, no; what am I thinking of? ‘P’ stands for Prentiss just as well as Pomeroy.”
“Yes, and for—for other names, too,” said Polly, remembering just in time. “Polly Perkins—that’s in your song—it stands for both of her names.”
“To be sure it does,” said Arctura. Then the chairs rocked in silence for a few minutes. Arctura stole a glance at the face so near hers. The little mouth was shut firmly, but there was a downward droop at the corners, and it certainly appeared to Arctura that something glistened in the long lashes that hid the great brown eyes.
“H-m—it’s a kind of a dull day for little folks and big folks, too,” she said, poking vigorously at the ashes in the grate with her back to Polly. “I don’t know as there’ll ever come a better time for me to tell you about the Square and me when I was your age.”
When she turned around the brown eyes were shining to match the eager voice, and Arctura smiled with satisfaction.
“This occurred forty-five years ago,” she began, briskly. “I might as well break it to you that I’m all but fifty-five. I suppose you’ve met folks as old as that, haven’t you?”
“Why, everybody at Manser Farm is ever and ever so much older, except Mrs. Manser and Father Manser, and Bob Rust,” said Polly, earnestly. “They’re all traveling on toward their end, Uncle Blodgett says, and he doesn’t care how soon he gets his marching orders for the heavenly land, but I care,” and the brown curls danced, “for I just love Uncle Blodgett.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Arctura, heartily. “Well now, about the Square and me. You see, my mother—‘marm,’ we all called her—was a notable cook. I don’t approach her on pie crust nor muffins, and there was a sort of rye drop cake,” said Miss Green, lowering her voice, “that nobody but her could ever make. And she was a great one to invent cake receipts, and then invite folks in to take a dish of tea in the afternoon and test the new cake.
“The Square’s wife was a good deal younger than he—she’d only be seventy if she was alive to-day, while he was eighty-five when he died—and she’d often accept marm’s invitations, and come to our old house—’twas burned years ago—and spend the best part of an afternoon just as friendly as you please. Not that ’twas any great come down, either,” said Arctura, with proper pride, “for my marm was of excellent stock, and I’m the first woman in the family records to work for pay.
“But that’s nothing to do with the story. One morning when John and I were starting off for school—Hiram was only a baby—marm gave us each an errand to do on the way. I can remember I stood barefoot in the grass—what did you say?” as Polly made a sound.
“Nothing but ‘oh!’” said Polly, quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, Miss Arctura.”
“Never mind, I’m glad to have you take an interest,” said the story-teller. “I can remember standing there in the grass waiting for John, and saying over and over to myself, ‘Please, Mrs. Pomeroy, marm sends her compliments and would like to have—no, that isn’t right—please, Mrs. Pomeroy, marm sends her compliments and would be happy to have you take tea with her this afternoon.’
“Pretty soon John came running out, and we took hold of hands and started for school. John said marm had told him to get an ounce of camphor at the store, and he was wishing she’d said a pound instead of such a stingy little mite, and I had to set forth to him how much an ounce of camphor could do before he was anyways reconciled.
“We had nearly two miles to go to school, and that morning when we got to the fork in the woods I ran across lots to get there quicker, and John went on down to the store. It was way out at the corners, not where the Burcham block is now,” explained Arctura. “Folks expected the village would grow this way, but it went the other.
“I ran to the front door, as marm had charged me to, and reached up for the knocker and gave it a good bang. And what should I see but the Square, instead of Mrs. Pomeroy that I was prepared for. He was tall and stern looking, and my ideas just fled away when I saw him, but I managed to remember my manners. I dropped a courtesy and said, ‘Please, marm wants Mrs. Pomeroy’s tea, and she’d be happy to have her compliments this afternoon.’”
“Then it came over me what I’d said, and with being scared and all I began to cry. And the Square just reached down and took my hand and led me into the house, and Mrs. Pomeroy understood the message right off, and said she’d be most happy to come. The Square kept hold of my hand all the time, and when the message was straightened out he said, ‘May I walk with you as far as our ways lie together, my little maid?’”
“Oh, wasn’t that beautiful!” cried Polly. “‘May I walk with you as far as our ways lie together, my little maid?’ That’s something like Mr. Shakespeare’s works that Uncle Blodgett has.”
“’Twas pretty fine talk, I think myself,” said Miss Green, “and ’twas followed up by finer, though I can’t recall anything else word for word. But we kept together hand in hand, he taking long strides and I running alongside, as you might say, till we reached a house where the Square had to stop. He took off his hat to me when he said good-bye and shook my hand, and said, ‘I beg you to accept this trifling remembrance, my little maid,’ and when I came to, there was a shining gold-piece in my hand.”
“‘I beg you to accept this trifling remembrance, my little maid,’” repeated Polly. “I think that’s even beautifuller than what he said at first. I guess Uncle Blodgett and Grandma Manser, too, would like to hear that. They love beautiful language.”
“When I got to school,” continued Arctura, after an appreciative smile at Polly, “John was in the middle of a group of children on the green. He’d taken off his coat and was showing ’em his first pair of ‘galluses’—bright red, they were, about the shade of this very yarn. One of the children ran up to me and said, ‘I suppose your brother John thinks he’s a man now, for he says his suspenders are just like your father’s.’”
“I never answered her, but I just opened out my palm to let her see the gold-piece, and I said, ‘The Square walked with me ’way to Mrs. Brown’s, and gave me this.’”
“John had considerable interest for the boys that day, but the girls were all taken up with me, and for weeks afterward when we got tired playing, somebody’d say, ‘Arctura, now you tell about your marm’s message, and the Square walking part way to school with you.’”
“Oh, I think it was ever so much more interesting than John’s suspenders,” said Polly, breathlessly. “I never heard anything so wonderful that happened to a little girl, Miss Arctura.”
Miss Green loosened the ruffle at her neck and slowly drew up a slender chain on the end of which something dangled.
“Suspenders wear out, even the best of ’em,” she said, softly leaning toward her little guest. “You look at that. My father bored a hole in it, and marm gave me this chain that was her marm’s, and I’ve worn it from that day to this.”
“And mind you,” said Miss Green, as Polly looked with awe at the little gold-piece, kept shining by Arctura’s loving care, “whenever the Square was a mite cross or unreasonable those last years, from his mind getting tangled, I’d put my hand over this little dangling thing, and I’d say to myself, ‘Arctura Green, who gave you the proudest day you ever knew as a little girl?’ and ’twould warm my heart up in a minute. There’s some that forgets, but, with all my faults, I ain’t one of the number.”
CHAPTER XVI
POLLY’S LETTER
WHEN Father Manser returned from his trip to the post-office the next evening he found the residents at Manser Farm, with the exception of his melancholy spouse, gathered in the kitchen. Mrs. Manser had gone to bed with a headache, but her absence failed to cast a gloom over the company. It was the most cheerful evening that had been known since Polly left them, for Uncle Blodgett had not only read the weekly “Sentinel” in so clear a tone that even Grandma Manser, near whom he sat, could hear, but he had, after urging, recited several poems.
“I admire to hear battle-pieces,” said Aunty Peebles, just as the door swung open to admit Father Manser. “When you spoke that ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ it gave me chills all along my spine, and made me feel as if I could step right forth to war.”
“I expect you wouldn’t be a very murderous character, though, come to get you on the field of battle,” said Uncle Blodgett, good-naturedly. “Now, there’s Mis’ Ramsdell, I reckon she’d make a good fighter if she was put to it.”
“I come of war stock,” said Mrs. Ramsdell, her black eyes snapping, and nostrils dilating as she acknowledged the compliment. “My father and his three brothers were in the war of 1812, and back of that their parents and uncles were in the thick of ’76, and led wherever they were.”
“Ain’t you kind of reckless, speaking of ‘parents’ that way?” inquired Uncle Blodgett. “Did your grandmarm conduct a regiment, or what was her part in the proceedings?”
Mrs. Ramsdell directed a look of withering scorn at her old friend, but her eye caught sight of a package in Father Manser’s hand and she was suddenly alert.
“What you got there?” she demanded, and at once all the old heads turned toward the new-comer.
Usually they took no special note of Father Manser’s return, as there were scarcely ever any letters, and they well knew the paper must be Mrs. Manser’s spoil for the evening.
“It’s a box,” said Father Manser, turning the package over and over in his hand.
“We can all see that,” said Mrs. Ramsdell, sharply.
“And it seems to be directed to Miss Anne Peebles,” proceeded Father Manser, taking no offence.
Aunty Peebles began to tremble with excitement as the box was handed to her, and a flush rose in the other old faces as the group closed in around the table, so that the lamp might shed its light on this surprising package.
“If you could wait till I’ve taken the paper in to Mrs. Manser, I’ve got a sharp knife that would cut those fastenings,” said Father Manser, wistfully. “Her door’s closed, and I won’t be but a minute. I won’t speak of the package, and I’ll mention that the fire needs more wood, for I see it does.”
“I’ll wait,” said Aunty Peebles, and spurred by a “Hurry up, then, for goodness’ sake!” from Mrs. Ramsdell, Father Manser sped off with the paper.
“It’s Polly’s writing,” said Uncle Blodgett, after a long squint at the address on the brown paper covering of the box. “I’ve got one of her exercises that the teacher said she might keep—one of that last batch, if I haven’t lost it.”
Uncle Blodgett drew from his coat pocket a long, flat wallet, and took out of it a piece of paper carefully creased and bearing evidences of frequent handling. He spread it out close to the box, so that all might see.
“You mark that cross on the T,” he said, triumphantly. “She begins it with a kind of a hook, different from most that you’d see. I—I noticed it the day she made me a gift of the paper,” said Uncle Blodgett, as he replaced his treasure in the wallet.
“The box is from Polly Prentiss,” cried Mrs. Ramsdell in Grandma Manser’s ear. “I guess your daughter-in-law’s made a mistake about her forgetting us, after all.” Then the old lady put her arm through Grandma Manser’s and pressed her fiercely as if to make amends for this reference to the doubting one. “’Taint as if she was your daughter, dear heart,” she said, remorsefully.
When the string had at last given way—Father Manser had slashed it recklessly in half a dozen places in his haste—and the box cover was lifted, there lay the letter on which Polly had spent so much time and thought, with seven chocolate drops on it. Aunty Peebles passed the box around and each of the company took a piece of candy; even Bob Rust had his portion, which he carried to his favorite seat near the door into the shed, and handled as if it were something rare and wonderful, as, indeed, it was to him.
Father Manser set his wife’s piece carefully aside. Nobody failed for a moment to understand little Polly’s loving thought for them all. Below the letter lay row after row of the chocolates, but they could wait.
“Now we’ve—ahem!—eaten part of the message,” said Uncle Blodgett, gruffly, “suppose you read us the rest of it, Mis’ Peebles. Seems to be some time since we’ve heard direct from the child.”
Aunty Peebles’s voice quavered many times during the reading, and there was a frank use of handkerchiefs at some points, but the interest in Polly’s letter never flagged.
“Dear folks at Manser Farm,” read Aunty Peebles, “this is a beautiful place and every one is very kind to me. How do you all do, and is Ebyneezer well and the other Animals? The minister came to dinner Sunday, that was why I was so late and you had gone, but I heard the Wagon up the hill. This is a beautiful place, with big trees, and in the house there are books and books and Cabbynets with kurous Shells and other things. And there is silver that shines, and my bed and chairs are white with a pink Strype. Mrs. Manser, I am being careful of my Close and I allways wear an apron. There are two little kittens here. Their names are Snip and Snap.
“When folks have such a beautiful place I guess they do not care much about going out-doors, but there is a Pyaza and I walk on that a great deal, beside I have been to walk down the road most every day with Miss Pomeroy and she is just as good to me! And once I have been in the Woods with Miss Arctura, and she said ‘next time,’ so that means we are going again. Mr. Hiram that is her brother can resite pieces and he is teaching me On Linden when the Sun was Low, Uncle Blodgett do you know that piece? He says he would give all his boot buttons to hear you resite Mr. Shakespeer’s Works. I do not think I have spelled that name right. Perhaps I can see you all before Christmas, but perhaps I cannot, for I am going to be adopted. Do you miss me, Grandma Manser and Mrs. Ramsdell? Do you miss me, Uncle Blodgett? and Aunty Peebles do you miss me? This is a beautiful place, and I read and sew and play with the kittens and Miss Pomeroy says I am a quiet little girl, Mrs. Manser. Father Manser do you remember giving me Pepermints? I hope you will all like this Candy. I have been to the Village once with Miss Pomeroy, but I did not see any folks I knew.
“I hope Grandma Manser will have her ear Trumpet pretty soon. Aunty Peebles I love that Cushion I look at it very many times, and Uncle Blodgett Mr. Hiram will have that knife fixed for a Present he says. Now I must say Goodbye with heaps and heaps of love. I put Aunty Peebles’ name on this because she admires to get things through the Post Office.
“Mary Prentiss.”
“Miss Pomeroy is not going to look at this. I am trying to be just like Ellynor, but I expect I am not. Will you please call me Polly to yourselves? Nobody here knows it ever was my name.”
The last few lines were evidently written in great haste. Polly had run upstairs to add them when she found the letter would not be inspected. There was a short silence when the last word had been read. Mrs. Ramsdell fidgeted in her chair.
“She seems to be real contented and happy, don’t she?” said Father Manser, looking from one to another for confirmation of his views. “I guess they’re mighty kind to her.”
“Kind! who wouldn’t be kind to that darling little thing, I’d like to know?” snapped Mrs. Ramsdell. “But she’s grieving for all the folks she’s been used to, and trying not to let anybody know it. It isn’t that we’re such remarkable folks, but it’s because she’s such a loving little thing; that’s the reason of it.”
“What do they mean by keeping her housed up so?” demanded Uncle Blodgett, sternly. “They’ll have her sick of a fever next thing we know. Out-doors has been the breath of her living and her joy. I guess what those folks need is somebody to make a few points clear to ’em. What was this Eleanor the child talks of, that she should be set up for a pattern? Wa’n’t she mortal like all the rest of us?”
“Mrs. Manser says Miss Pomeroy thought she was perfection,” ventured Father Manser, as nobody else seemed prepared with an answer. “She used to talk with Polly about her, every day before she went, advising her what she’d better do—Mrs. Manser did.”
“I’ll warrant she did,” said Uncle Blodgett, bitterly. “That’s the whole root of the trouble. Now, you mark my words, all of you women folks”—Uncle Blodgett evidently included poor Father Manser in his summing up—“I’m going to have speech with that Pomeroy woman before many more days have gone over my head, and I’m going to set a few things straight. As for having that child carry the weight of this whole establishment, leaks, ear-trumpets, shingles, and all on her mind, and try to live up to nobody knows what—I won’t stand it!”
“What do you plan?” asked Mrs. Ramsdell, with unwonted respect.
“I shall fare down to the village with Father here,” said Uncle Blodgett, indicating the object of his choice with a careless nod, “and if she doesn’t happen to drive in that morning, I shall foot it to Pomeroy Oaks. My legs are good for a little matter of three miles or so.”
“It’s a good four miles, as I remember it,” muttered Mrs. Ramsdell.
“Well, call it four, then,” roared Uncle Blodgett in a sudden fury. “Call it five or six or ten if you’ve a mind. My legs are good for it, I tell ye. And if I have to foot it there,” he added, turning quickly on poor Father Manser, “you may say to your wife I’ve gone a-visiting an old friend for the afternoon. If Polly Prentiss ain’t an old friend, I haven’t got one in this world.”
Uncle Blodgett sat heavily down in his chair, exhausted by his unwonted outbreak, but Mrs. Ramsdell stepped over to him and held out her hand.
“If I was five years younger,” said the old lady, whose age nobody knew, “I’d put on my bonnet and shawl and foot it with you!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]