CHAPTER IX
MISS POLLY’S PIANO
“IT’S very humiliating to be in disgrace, and not allowed to have dinner with your family,” said Molly, with a long sigh. “I hate bread and milk, don’t you, Dulcie?”
Dulcie did not answer, but pushed away her almost untouched bowl, and rested her elbows on the nursery table. Her face was red and swollen with crying, and she looked the picture of woe. Molly regarded her critically.
“You haven’t eaten anything,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be hungry before to-morrow morning?”
Dulcie shook her head.
“I don’t care if I am,” she said, drearily. “I can’t swallow; every time I try something chokes me.”
“Is your throat sore?” Molly inquired, with a vivid recollection of Maud’s frequent sore throats.
“No, it isn’t sore, but there’s a lump in it. Oh, Molly, it’s awful! I was never so unhappy before in my life.”
Molly looked very much troubled.
“Is it because Grandma wouldn’t let us go down to dinner, and says we’re not to have any dessert for a week?” she questioned doubtfully.
“Oh, I don’t mind that so much. It’s horrid, of course, but I could bear it if it wasn’t for other things. Grandma says I’m a disgrace to the family, and she’s going to write Papa about it.”
“Papa won’t believe her, I know he won’t,” protested Molly. “Besides, we can write to him too, and tell what really happened. I think you were very brave to fight that boy when he was hurting Paul.”
“It was a terribly unladylike thing to do,” said Dulcie. “I don’t wonder Grandma was ashamed. Young ladies don’t fight street boys, and I’m nearly twelve. I promised Papa to take care of you all, and set a good example. And instead of that, I got you into a horrid scrape, and Paul too.” Suddenly Dulcie’s head went down on her arms, and she began to cry.
Molly was at her sister’s side in a moment.
“Don’t be so unhappy, darling, please don’t,” she pleaded, with her arms round Dulcie’s neck. “It wasn’t any more your fault than mine and Paul’s. We really thought we were doing our duty. If Rosy had been a stolen child, and we’d found her family, everybody would have been delighted. I don’t believe even Grandma would have scolded then.”
“I don’t think there are any stolen children in the world,” moaned Dulcie. “They’re just in books, and we were very silly to imagine Rosy must be one. She wasn’t even very pretty, and she was so dreadfully dirty. I don’t see why the people who write books want to put things in that aren’t true.”
“There was Charlie Ross,” said Molly; “he was true.”
“He was only one, and there may never have been another. Anyway, we’ve done something awful, and I don’t believe Aunt Julia will ever forgive us for taking Paul to that dreadful place.”
“Here come Daisy and Maud,” exclaimed Molly, in a tone of relief, as the sound of approaching footsteps fell upon their ears.
At the entrance of her two sisters, Dulcie lifted her head.
“What’s the matter?” she demanded tragically. “Are you punished, too? It’s only seven o’clock.”
“Oh, no,” said Daisy, with a great effort to speak in her usual cheerful voice. “Aunt Kate is expecting a missionary, and Grandma said we might as well get out of the way.”
“There was ice-cream,” announced Maud, “but Daisy wouldn’t take any. It was good, too, only Grandma wouldn’t let me have two helpings.”
“Why didn’t you take any, Daisy?” inquired Molly, her eyes wide with astonishment.
“Oh, I just thought I wouldn’t,” returned Daisy, evasively. “It’s nice we could come up so early, isn’t it?”
“I know what the reason was,” said Dulcie, with conviction. “It was because we couldn’t have any, wasn’t it, Daisy?”
Daisy blushed, and looked very much embarrassed.
“Well, I couldn’t enjoy good things to eat when I knew you had nothing but bread and milk,” she admitted, at which Molly promptly threw her arms round her sister’s neck, and hugged her.
“I believe you’re the best girl in the world, Daisy,” Dulcie declared. “We never should have gotten into such a scrape if you had been with us. I knew it wasn’t right all the time, but it was such an exciting adventure, and we never had a real adventure in our lives.”
“I don’t believe I should like an adventure,” said Maud, virtuously. “Aunt Julia has put Paul to bed, you know. She’s sure he’s caught some dreadful disease. She wanted to send for the doctor but Grandma wouldn’t let her.”
“What kind of a disease is it?” Molly wanted to know.
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s something called nerves. That was it, wasn’t it, Daisy?”
“Oh, I don’t believe Paul is going to be ill at all,” said Daisy, reassuringly. “Grandma doesn’t think so either. Aunt Kate laughed, and said Paul wasn’t the first boy in the family to come home with a black eye. She was beginning to tell about something that happened when Papa was a boy, when Grandma gave that little cough she always gives when she wants people to stop talking, and Aunt Kate didn’t say any more.”
“Do you suppose Papa ever fought with anybody when he was a boy?” suggested Molly, her face brightening at the delightful possibility.
“I don’t know, but we’ll ask him in our next letter. Now let’s do something pleasant. It’s a whole hour till bedtime.”
But for once Daisy’s cheerful suggestion failed to meet with its usual response. Neither Dulcie nor Molly felt inclined to do “anything pleasant” that evening. They tried lotto, but before the first game was finished Dulcie had begun to cry again.
“I don’t feel like doing anything but going to bed,” she announced, with a sob. “My heart’s so heavy, I can’t take an interest in ordinary things.”
“It is pretty dreadful,” agreed Maud. “Aunt Julia thinks she will have to take Paul back to Boston. She’s afraid he’ll want to go on playing with us, and she says we aren’t fit to associate with him. I don’t think it’s quite fair to say all of us, when Daisy and I didn’t do a single thing. I wish Miss Polly would sing; it’s always comforting to hear music when you’re sad.”
“Let’s go and see Miss Polly,” exclaimed Daisy, with a sudden inspiration. “I haven’t heard the piano all day. Perhaps she isn’t well.”
Dulcie shook her head.
“I can’t go,” she said, mournfully. “I’ve cried so much my head aches, and my eyes are all swollen.”
“So are mine,” added Molly, “and I don’t feel like making calls any more than Dulcie does. You and Maud might go, though.”
“You go, Daisy,” coaxed Maud. “I don’t like that dark closet at night. Ask her please to sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer,’ or ‘Pull For the Shore.’”
“All right,” said Daisy, good-naturedly, and after giving the afflicted Dulcie a sympathetic kiss on the back of her bowed head, she tripped away cheerfully on her errand.
The children had become quite accustomed to visiting their neighbor by this time, and the mysterious door in the wall had lost some of its original fascination. Still, there was always a certain thrill of excitement in turning the handle, and the sudden plunge into the housemaid’s closet next door. Daisy’s heart beat rather fast, as she groped her way amid brooms and dust-pans, and stepped out into the lighted hall. Outside Miss Polly’s door she paused for a moment, to make sure the little cripple was alone. Once they had heard voices, and had crept quietly away again, for if the landlady, or any one else in the boarding-house, were to discover their secret, who knew what might happen? It was possible that Miss Collins might have as strong an objection to an unlocked door between the houses as Grandma herself. But to-night all was quiet, and after a moment’s hesitation, Daisy knocked softly.
Instead of the usual sound of the wheel-chair being pushed across the room, a rather unsteady voice called, “Come in.”
“Good evening, Miss Polly,” said the visitor, cheerfully, as she stepped over the threshold, and closed the door, “I came to ask—why, Miss Polly, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
Miss Polly was not in the wheel-chair; she was in bed, and the face she turned to greet the little girl was very white. But at Daisy’s anxious question, she tried to smile her old bright smile.
“No, no, dear, not ill, only a little tired. I asked Maggie to help me to bed before she went out for the evening. Come and sit down. I am glad to have company, but where are the others?”
“They couldn’t come very well this evening,” said Daisy, blushing. “I can’t stay long either; I only came to ask if you would sing something, but of course you can’t now you’re in bed. Why, Miss Polly, where’s the piano?”
“It’s gone, dearie,” answered Miss Polly, in the same low, unsteady voice in which she had called “come in.” “It went away this afternoon. I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to sing to you any more.”
“Oh, Miss Polly,” cried Daisy, and stopped short in sudden embarrassment, for her friend’s cheeks, which had been so pale a moment before, had flushed a dusky crimson, and there was such a sad look in her eyes that the little girl could not think of another word to say. But Miss Polly was not slow to read the sympathy in her visitor’s face.
“Don’t look so distressed,” she said, kindly. “Come here and sit on the bed, and I’ll tell you about it. It was hard, of course, but we all have hard things to bear sometimes, and I ought to be thankful that I was able to keep my dear piano so long.”
“Was it the gentleman in the back room who objected?” asked Daisy, as she took the proffered seat on the bed, and slipped her hand into Miss Polly’s.
Miss Polly gave the kind little hand an affectionate squeeze.
“No, dear, nobody objected, every one was very kind. Miss Collins even tried to persuade me to keep it a little longer, but I couldn’t do that, after I understood about the money.”
“What money?” inquired Daisy, with deep interest.
“My money, dear. It isn’t all gone, I am thankful to say, but the bank in Vermont, where I had several hundred dollars, failed the other day, and my lawyer has written me that I have been spending more than I realized these past three years. Of course I couldn’t run into debt, so the wisest plan seemed to be to sell——”
Miss Polly paused abruptly, and put up her hand to shade her eyes.
“You mean to sell the piano?” whispered Daisy, winking hard to keep back the sympathetic tears. “Oh, Miss Polly, and you loved it so.”
There was a short silence, then Miss Polly spoke, and though her voice was not as bright as usual, it no longer trembled.
“It seems a little hard just at first,” she said, with a faint smile, “but I shall get used to it in time, as I had to other things, that were even harder. It’s wonderful to find how kind and sympathetic people are. Why, would you believe it, my dear, that foolish Maggie actually cried when she was putting me to bed. I used to think her a little indifferent sometimes, but I see I was mistaken. My piano was a great pleasure, but I still have my books, and my dear little neighbors too. I shouldn’t like to have Tom hear of it, it would grieve him so much, but there isn’t any need of his ever knowing.”
“He wouldn’t have let it happen if he had known,” cried Daisy. “Oh, dear Miss Polly, won’t you please write him about it? He’d be so unhappy if he ever found out.”
Daisy’s voice was pleading, but Miss Polly shook her head resolutely.
“My dear,” she said, gently, “you don’t understand. Some day Tom must know, of course, but not till things are a little easier for him. Miss Collins has been trying to persuade me to write, but I know better. I had a letter from Tom this morning; such a dear letter; I will read it to you.”
As she spoke, Miss Polly drew from under her pillow a crumpled sheet of paper, covered with a firm, manly handwriting.
“I think I could almost repeat it by heart,” she said, smoothing out the letter with loving fingers. “I keep all his letters, and read them over and over. This one isn’t very long, but the dear boy is so busy. It’s very good of him to take the time to write at all. Would you like to hear what he says?”
Daisy said she would like it very much, and Miss Polly began to read in a voice that was still a little unsteady.
“Dear old Polly:
“Your good letter reached us several days ago, and would have been answered sooner but for the fact that I have been working every evening this week, and some nights haven’t left the office till after nine. It’s a bit hard on that little wife of mine, but I tell her all is grist that comes to our mill, and if things keep on as they have for the past year, it won’t be very long before I can begin to let up a little. Who knows but that we may have our carriage, and our box at the opera, some fine day. Helen laughs when I predict a glorious future, but, joking aside, I have good reason to expect another raise of salary in the spring. My employer, Mr. Anderson, gave me a strong hint to that effect a few days ago.
“We laughed heartily over your description of your interesting little neighbors, who have discovered a secret door in the wall. Rather an unusual find in a New York boarding-house, I should think. It reminds me of some of those thrilling tales we used to read in our childhood. I shall expect to hear next of a secret staircase leading to a dungeon, where a captive princess is kept in concealment. I am glad you find the children so entertaining, but I should think you might be rather tired when evening comes, and prefer some other amusement to singing ballads. However, that is your affair, not mine. All I care about is that you don’t work too hard, and wear yourself out. You and Helen will have some fine times over your music, when you make us that long deferred visit, for she is as fond of singing as you are, and I really think you will be pleased with her voice. We have hired a piano, and I generally find her singing away like a nightingale when I come home late of an evening. She says she can’t help it; it’s the way she has of expressing her happiness. As to your namesake, if she doesn’t sing yet, she certainly crows. She is as jolly and healthy as a baby can be, and Helen warns me not to forget to give you the great news, little Polly has cut her first tooth.
“Now, my dear little sister, I must ask you to pardon a short letter, for it is after eleven P. M. and Helen is beginning to look severe, as she invariably does when she considers I am not getting my proper allowance of sleep. I am delighted to hear that you are enjoying your piano so much. Have you been to any good concerts lately? How about the season ticket for the opera I requested you to buy, with that small Christmas check? Helen and I indulged in a little dissipation one night last week. She met me in town, and we dined at a restaurant, and went to the theatre. It was a great treat, I assure you, and as ‘our one and only maid’ seems a capable sort of person, Helen was not afraid to leave baby in her care.
“Good-night, old girl. Write often, and believe me, as always,
“Your affectionate brother,
“Tom Oliver.”
“Isn’t it a dear, kind letter?” said Miss Polly, looking up with shining eyes.
“It’s very nice indeed,” agreed Daisy, “but, dear Miss Polly, I can’t help wishing he knew about everything.”
Miss Polly smiled and shook her head.
“No, no, dear,” she said, resolutely, “not just yet. Tom and Helen must have a little more time to themselves, and then—well, perhaps in another year. But don’t let us talk any more about my tiresome affairs. Tell me what you have all been doing since you came to see me last.”
“How long you stayed, Daisy, and Miss Polly never sang a single song,” reproached Maud, when her sister returned to the nursery, at a quarter past eight.
“I couldn’t come back any sooner,” explained Daisy. “Miss Polly is very unhappy, and I think it comforted her a little to have me stay and talk. I told her all about this afternoon, and she laughed, she really did, Dulcie, and said she wished she could have seen you and Paul fighting that big boy. It was the only time she laughed, for, oh, girls, such a very sad thing has happened. Poor Miss Polly has lost a great deal of money, and she’s had to sell her piano.”
“I think the world is a very sad place,” remarked Dulcie, with a long sigh, when they had heard all that Daisy could tell them of Miss Polly’s troubles. “It’s been a very uncomfortable day, for everybody. Now let’s go to bed, and I’ll talk to you about Mamma.”
It was nearly half-past nine, and Dulcie’s voice had begun to sound decidedly drowsy, when they were all startled into wakefulness by a knock at the nursery door.
“Who is it?” demanded Daisy, sitting up in bed.
“It’s me—I, I mean,” answered a familiar voice. “I can’t stay but a minute, for fear of Mother, but I heard the missionary man talking as if he was preaching a sermon, so I’m sure he can’t be going quite yet. I just wanted to tell Dulcie and Molly I’m not a bit sick, and I don’t believe I’m going to be. Mother always fusses a lot, but she doesn’t mean it all, and I’m going to write to Father to-morrow, and tell him how plucky Dulcie was.”