“OF course, if Grandma should ever ask us, we should have to tell her, but if she doesn’t—and I don’t really believe she will—I don’t see why it’s our duty to say anything about it.”
Dulcie spoke in a tone of settled conviction, the result of long considering on the subject, and her verdict was received by her three younger sisters with unmistakable satisfaction. For three days, “Molly’s adventure,” as Daisy called it, had been the chief topic of conversation in the nursery. From the moment when, on their return from church on Sunday morning, Molly and Maud had poured the wonderful story into their incredulous ears, Dulcie and Daisy had thought of little else. Many and long had been the discussions, always held in low voices, and in the seclusion of their own room. At first Daisy had been of the opinion that Grandma must be told. “Suppose a burglar should make his way through the mysterious door some night,” she suggested, “and carry off the family silver!” But this objection to the keeping of their secret had been overruled by Molly, who pointed out that the burglar would first be obliged to break into the house next door, and that it was most unlikely that he would discover the existence of the door in the wall. The people in the boarding-house were certainly not burglars, and as nobody had ever thought of opening the door before, why were they not as safe now as they had ever been? Still Daisy was not altogether convinced, and it was only after many hours of doubt and uncertainty that she finally yielded to the strong persuasions of her sisters.
“Just think, it’s the first real secret we ever had,” pleaded Molly.
“It was my secret first,” chimed in Maud, “and I needn’t have told any of you if I hadn’t wanted to. If you tell, Daisy, I think you’re the meanest girl in the world.” And Maud—who was still feeling rather poorly—began to cry.
But at last even Daisy ceased to protest. One stipulation she made, however, and that was to be allowed to write the whole story to Papa.
“If Papa says we can keep the secret,” she said, “it will be all right, but if he thinks Grandma ought to know, we shall have to tell her.”
“It will take a long time to get an answer from China,” said Dulcie, cheerfully, “and Papa always understands things.”
So Daisy wrote her letter, and felt decidedly more comfortable after it was mailed. And now it was Wednesday night, and the children were enjoying the rare treat of an evening to themselves. Grandma and Aunt Kate had gone to dine with their minister and his wife, and were to attend a missionary meeting afterwards, so as soon as they finished their rather meager supper, they had retired to their own premises, which was more agreeable than spending a silent evening down-stairs. For the past fifteen minutes, they had been eagerly discussing the propriety of making a call on their interesting next-door neighbor.
“You promised to take me just as soon as I was well enough,” pleaded Maud, “and I’m all well now. Grandma says I may go out to-morrow if it doesn’t rain. I think we ought to go and thank her for being so kind. She sang ‘Only an Armor-Bearer’ six times on Sunday, and she’s sung all my favorite week-day songs, too.”
“I think it’s our duty to go,” said Molly, virtuously. “Girls in books always go to see cripples and invalids. They read the Bible to them, and bring them nice things to eat. Perhaps we could ‘minister’ to her, like that girl in ‘Ministering Children.’”
“We haven’t any nice things to take her to eat,” said Daisy, with a sigh. “We might read the Bible to her, though. Did she seem like a very religious lady, Molly?”
“I don’t know,” said Molly. “She didn’t talk about religious things, but I’m sure she’s very good. She said she loved her books, so perhaps she’d rather read the Bible to herself.”
“I think she must be like ‘Cousin Helen’ in ‘What Katy Did,’” decided Dulcie. “You know she was always very cheerful, and everybody loved her. I don’t remember that she was particularly religious. I feel perfectly sure Papa would like to have us go to see her.”
“Of course he would,” affirmed Molly, with conviction. “Grandma wouldn’t, though, because she never wants us to go and see anybody. I think sometimes Grandma just tries to be disagreeable.”
“I don’t think we ought to say such things,” said Daisy, gravely. “You know what Papa told us about being loyal.”
“Well, we don’t have to be loyal to Grandma when we’re all by ourselves,” retorted Molly. “It’s hard enough to remember when we’re with people, like Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie. We can say what we like to each other, and it’s a great comfort.”
“Don’t argue, children,” reproved Dulcie, in her elder sister tone. “I’ve thought it over a lot, and I’ve decided that it really is our duty to go and call on the singing lady.”
“Let’s go now, right away,” exclaimed Maud, joyfully, springing to her feet.
Dulcie glanced at the clock.
“It’s only a little after seven,” she said, reflectively. “Mary’s out, and Bridget never comes up-stairs till bedtime. Yes, I think we might go now.”
“Come along, then,” cried Maud, already half-way to the door. She was promptly followed by Molly, and Daisy, though still a little reluctant, did not linger far behind. But Dulcie still hesitated.
“We ought to take her a present,” she said. “People always take presents to cripples.”
“What sort of a present?” Molly inquired anxiously.
“Flowers, or a Bible, or—or—oh, I don’t know exactly; something very nice and appropriate.”
The other three glanced helplessly around the room, and their faces fell.
“But we haven’t any flowers,” said Molly, “and I’m quite sure Miss Polly has a Bible. We couldn’t give her ours, anyway, because it belonged to Mamma. I don’t believe we really have to take a present, Dulcie. I think she’ll be glad to see us, even if we haven’t got anything for her.”
“You don’t suppose she’d care for a paper doll?” suggested Maud. “Of course I know she’s a grown-up lady, but if she has to sit still in a chair all the time, she might enjoy cutting out paper dresses. I’d take her my prettiest one if you think she’d like it.”
Dulcie and Molly laughed, and Daisy said kindly:
“I’m afraid a paper doll wouldn’t do, Maudie, though it was very sweet of you to think of it. We’ll have to go without a present this time, but perhaps we can make her a book-mark, or something like that, before we go again.”
That question being settled, there seemed nothing further to wait for, so, with fast-beating hearts, the four little girls set forth on their adventure. At the trunk-room door Maud drew back.
“I didn’t know it was going to be so dark,” she protested. “I don’t like dark places.”
“Nonsense,” said Dulcie, impatiently. “Keep hold of Daisy’s hand, and you won’t be scared.” And, as the eldest member of the party, Dulcie advanced firmly into the trunk-room.
It required some fumbling to discover the knob of the mysterious door, as the only light was the dim reflection from a single gas-jet in the hall, but when found it turned easily, and the next moment they had plunged into the still greater darkness of the housemaid’s closet next door.
Molly tumbled over a step-ladder, and Maud uttered a suppressed scream, but Dulcie pressed on steadily ahead.
“This is the way out,” she announced in an excited whisper; “I feel the door. Oh, I hope it isn’t locked. No, it’s all right; here’s the handle. Oh!” And, with a great gasp, Dulcie stepped out into the lighted hall of the boarding-house.
“That’s her room,” whispered Molly, pointing to one of the closed doors. “Shall I knock, or will you, Dulcie?”
“You’d better,” said Dulcie. “You know her, and we don’t. Be sure not to forget to introduce us.”
Molly stepped forward, and for the second time, tapped softly at the “singing lady’s” door. There was a moment’s pause, and then the sweet voice they had all so often heard singing the old-fashioned ballads they loved, called a cheerful “Come in,” and Molly turned the handle.
Miss Polly was in her wheel-chair, which had been pushed under the rather high chandelier in the centre of the room. She had evidently been reading, but at the children’s entrance she laid down her book, and with a little cry of pleasure, held out both hands in greeting.
“Why, it’s my little neighbors from next door,” she said joyfully. “Oh, but I am glad to see you, dears. And did you all come through the door in the wall?”
“Yes, we did,” said Molly; and, mindful of Dulcie’s instruction, she added, primly, “These are my three sisters; Dulcie, Daisy, and Maud. We came to thank you for being so kind about singing while Maud was in bed, with her sore throat.”
“You are all most welcome, I am sure,” said Miss Polly, heartily, her pretty face fairly beaming with pleasure. “It’s never any trouble to me to sing. I love music more than almost anything else in the world. I would like to be at my piano all day if it were not for fear of troubling the other boarders.”
“I’m sure it couldn’t trouble anybody,” said Dulcie, politely. “We love it.”
“You are very kind to say so, dear, but you see people don’t all feel the same way about things. There was an old gentleman on this floor last year who objected very much. He said music made him nervous, and threatened to leave if he ever heard the piano when he was in his room. Miss Collins was very sorry, but of course she couldn’t run the risk of losing a boarder, so I had to be very careful. Fortunately, he has gone away now, and the young man who occupies the room this winter is scarcely ever at home. Now, won’t you all sit down and make me a nice little visit? I expected to be alone all the evening, for Miss Collins told me she was going to the theatre, and she is about my only visitor. I am sorry I haven’t more chairs to offer you. You see, I have so few visitors, it seemed foolish to waste chairs, so I let Miss Collins take some that belonged in this room and use them somewhere else. Perhaps two of you won’t object to sitting on the bed.”
“We like sitting on beds very much,” remarked Maud, as she and Molly had promptly seated themselves. “Your bed is made up now, isn’t it? Molly said it wasn’t the other day.”
“Maud!” cried Molly, blushing, but Miss Polly only smiled.
“That was because the chambermaid had gone to church,” she explained. “Maggie is a nice girl, and does many kind things for me every day, but she is very busy, and sometimes I have to wait a little while, which is only right and natural.”
“You must excuse Maud,” apologized Dulcie. “She doesn’t mean to be rude, but she isn’t eight yet. I think this is a very pretty room. May I look at your books? I love books.”
“To be sure you may, and borrow any that you like. I am afraid a good many of my books are rather dry for a little girl, but I have ‘The Wide Wide World,’ and ‘The Lamplighter,’ and Grace Aguilar’s works. You might enjoy some of those.”
Dulcie went over to the bookcase, and was soon absorbed in examining its contents, but the other three remained in their seats, and prepared to make themselves agreeable.
“It’s been a very pleasant day,” observed Dulcie, by way of starting the conversation. “We’ve been playing in the square. We often go there to play.”
“It must be a very pleasant place to play in,” said Miss Polly. “I sometimes wish this house was opposite the park, for it would be so pleasant to see the green trees in summer. But one cannot have everything, and I am so comfortable here, in this nice room, that it doesn’t seem quite right to wish for anything more.”
“Don’t you ever go out at all?” asked Daisy, and she looked so distressed that Miss Polly hastened to say cheerfully:
“Well, no, dear. You see, it couldn’t be managed very easily. It would be very difficult to get my chair down all these stairs, even if there were any one to carry me, which of course there isn’t.”
“I shouldn’t think you could be very heavy,” said Molly, with a critical glance at the tiny figure in the wheel-chair. “If somebody carried you down-stairs, couldn’t you go for a drive in a carriage? Central Park is lovely, and there are beautiful trees there. Lizzie, our nurse, used to take us to Central Park very often. We went on the Sixth Avenue elevated road, and it was great fun, but I don’t suppose you could go that way.”
Miss Polly smiled rather sadly.
“I am afraid not,” she said. “A carriage would be different, but carriages cost money, you know.”
“I wish we had a carriage,” said Daisy, regretfully. “We’d take you out every day if we had. Papa had a horse and carriage when we lived in Danby, before Mamma died, but that was a long time ago. We don’t mind not having one ourselves, because we like the stages and the elevated just as well, but it would be lovely to take you to Central Park.”
“Thank you, dear, but I appreciate the kind thought just as much as I should the drive. There is just one reason why I should like to be able to get out occasionally; it would give me more to write about in my letters to Tom.”
“Who is Tom?” inquired Daisy, with interest.
“My dear brother; the only near relative I have in the world. I write to him every week, and sometimes it is a little difficult to make my letters interesting. Tom isn’t particularly fond of books, and I am afraid it might bore him to hear about what I am reading. Sometimes I am almost afraid he may begin to suspect that I don’t get about as I used to.”
“Why, doesn’t he know?” gasped Daisy; and Dulcie, who had been glancing over “A Mother’s Recompense,” suddenly closed her book, and regarded Miss Polly with increased interest.
Miss Polly blushed, and looked a little embarrassed.
“No, dear, he doesn’t,” she confessed. “You see, I have never been able to bring myself to the point of telling him. You see, he was in Chicago when I met with my accident, and he had just written me of his engagement to such a dear girl. He was so happy, and if he had known about me, it would have spoiled everything. Tom is such a sweet, unselfish boy. Nothing in the world would have kept him away from me. He would have given up his position, where he was doing so well, and come home to take care of me. I couldn’t let him do that, now, could I? Of course, he had to be told of the accident, but I wouldn’t let any one write him how serious it was, and when I left the hospital, and was able to write myself, he thought I was quite well again. I meant to tell him later, but somehow the right time never seemed to come. Tom and Helen are married now, and have a baby, a dear little girl, whom they have named for me. I was so happy when that news came that I cried—wasn’t I silly?”
“But doesn’t your brother ever come to see you?” Dulcie asked.
“He would if he could, dear, but he can’t leave his business very well, and besides, it costs a good deal to come all the way from Chicago to New York and back. He sends me presents, though, such beautiful presents, and last summer, after the baby came, he and Helen wanted me to come and make them a long visit. He offered to pay all my expenses, and Helen wrote me such a cordial invitation. Of course, I couldn’t go, and I had to pretend that I was too busy to leave New York. You see, Tom thinks I am still giving music lessons, as I did before my accident.”
“But that isn’t true,” objected Daisy, looking rather shocked.
A shadow crossed Miss Polly’s bright face.
“I know it, dear,” she said, with a sigh, “and that’s the hardest part of it all. My father was a minister, and Tom and I were brought up always to speak the truth. It worries me a great deal to have to deceive Tom as I do, but even that seems better than being a burden to him, as I should be if he knew the truth. He had such a hard struggle at first, but he is doing splendidly now, and he and Helen are so ideally happy. They have just bought a little house on the Lake Shore, in one of the prettiest suburbs of Chicago. Tom sent me a photograph of it, with Helen and the baby on the porch. They say there’s a dear little room for me, whenever I can spare the time to make them a visit. They little know what a troublesome visitor I should be.” Miss Polly’s bright voice broke suddenly, and her sentence ended in a sigh.
“I don’t believe you would be a troublesome visitor at all,” said Daisy, laying a kind little hand on Miss Polly’s knee. “I think they would just love having you; don’t you, Dulcie?”
“Yes,” agreed Dulcie, “I’m perfectly sure of it. But, Miss Polly, would you mind telling us what you write about every week, and how you keep your brother from finding out?”
Miss Polly smiled, but she looked a little troubled, too, and the color deepened in her cheeks.
“I’m afraid you will think me a very foolish person,” she said, “but I’ll tell you all about it from the beginning, and then perhaps you will understand a little better. Tom and I were born in a Vermont village, where our father was minister of the Congregational Church for a good many years. My mother died when we were both little, and we were brought up by an old housekeeper, who was devoted to us. Tom is two years older than I, and ever since I can remember, I have loved him better than any one else in the world. My father was a good man, but rather stern and unapproachable, and not particularly fond of children. Tom was a bright boy, always full of fun and mischief, but he didn’t care very much about study, and my father—who was a great student himself—was constantly reproaching him for not doing better at school. He wanted Tom to study for the ministry, but the boy had no taste for preaching. He went to college to please Father, but at the end of his sophomore year he had so many conditions to make up that Father was very angry, and refused to let him go back the next term, so Tom decided to go West and try to make his fortune. That was eight years ago, and he was just twenty then. He had rather a hard time at first, but after a year or two, he settled in Chicago, where he has lived ever since. He came home twice for a visit. The last time was three years and a half ago, when Father died. Father wasn’t a rich man—country ministers never are rich men—but all he had was divided equally between Tom and me. Tom wouldn’t take a penny. He said he was quite able to support himself, and that I must have all Father’s money. It was very generous of him, and I tried my best to make him take his share, but he is an obstinate boy, and when he has once made up his mind to do a thing, nothing in this world will change him. So in the end I had to give in, and he went back to Chicago. He wanted me to go with him, but I’d set my heart on coming to New York to study music and give lessons. Of course, I had to leave the parsonage, where Tom and I were born, and after spending the summer with some friends, I came here to New York in the fall and started work. It wasn’t quite as easy as I had expected, but I managed to get a few pupils, and the money I earned paid for my own lessons. I was very happy all that winter, and then—and then I met with my accident.”
Miss Polly paused for a moment, and the look in her eyes was very sad, but when she went on again, her voice was as cheerful as ever.
“Of course there was no more work for me after that, and if it hadn’t been for the money Tom had made me accept, things would have been much harder than they were. I had been boarding up-town before the accident, but when I was in the hospital, I wrote to Miss Collins—who used to live at Pine Brook, and was a friend of my mother’s—and asked if she could give me a room in her house. I thought it would be pleasanter than living with complete strangers. She was very kind, and offered me this lovely room, which happened to be vacant just then, so as soon as I was able to leave the hospital, I was brought here, and here I have been ever since. I have never been down-stairs since the day I was carried up, but Miss Collins lets me have my dear piano, and that is my greatest joy.”
“But you haven’t told us about the letters to your brother,” said Dulcie.
“I’m just coming to that, my dear. You see, when I first came to New York, I used to write Tom about my pupils, and he got to know their names, and would ask questions about them in his letters. Well, afterwards, I had to keep on writing about the same things, or he would have thought it strange. I have to use a good deal of imagination, because I have never seen any of those people since my accident.”
“You mean you make up things,” said Dulcie, “just as if you were writing a story.”
Miss Polly nodded.
“That’s just it,” she said. “I used to write stories when I was a little girl, though, of course, none of them were worth anything. I have made up all sorts of stories about those old pupils of mine. I don’t know what they would say if they ever heard of them, but they are all pleasant stories, so perhaps they wouldn’t object very much. Sometimes I am able to write something that is really true. One of the girls I taught was married this winter. I saw an account of the wedding in the paper, and I cut it out and sent it to Tom in a letter. I was afraid I had made a mistake, though, when Tom wrote that Helen wanted to know what I wore to the wedding. I had to invent a costume, and that wasn’t easy, for I know very little about the fashions nowadays.” And Miss Polly glanced down at her plain blue wrapper with a rather sad smile.
“I think you are the most wonderful person I ever heard of,” declared Dulcie, with shining eyes.
“But just think how your brother will feel when he finds out,” said Daisy; “he will find out sometime, won’t he?”
“I am afraid he will, and that is what worries me. There is one comfort, though; it won’t be quite as bad as it would have been at first, for Tom is doing better in business now, and the burden might not seem so very great.”
“I don’t believe he would think it a burden at all, and I think you ought to tell him, I really do,” said Daisy, with unusual firmness.
Miss Polly shook her head.
“Not yet, dear,” she said; “some day, perhaps, but not just yet.”
For a moment nobody spoke, and then Maud’s voice broke the silence. “Won’t you please sing ‘Darby and Joan’?” she inquired in a rather sleepy little voice. Maud was only seven, and she had not found Miss Polly’s reminiscences quite so absorbing as her elder sisters had done.
“To be sure I will,” said Miss Polly, and in a moment she had pushed the wheel-chair across the room to the piano.
Then followed a very pleasant half-hour. Miss Polly sang all their favorite ballads, greatly to everybody’s enjoyment, especially Maud’s. The little girl quite forgot that she was sleepy, and stood by the piano, drinking in every note, and looking so happy that Miss Polly regarded her with growing interest.
“You love music, don’t you, dear?” she asked, kindly, at the close of “Twickenham Ferry.”
“Oh, yes,” said Maud, eagerly; “I love it when I’m on the other side of the wall, but I love it even better when I’m on this side.”
Everybody laughed, and then Daisy looked at the clock, and rose reluctantly.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid we ought to go. It’s nearly half-past eight, and Grandma always sends us to bed at eight.”
Miss Polly looked sorry, but made no objections.
“You must do as your grandmother wishes,” she said, “but I hope you will be able to come again very soon.”
“Oh, we will, we will,” promised the four little girls, and then, to every one’s surprise, Maud—who was not usually a demonstrative child—suddenly lifted her face and kissed the little lady in the wheel-chair.
Miss Polly fairly beamed with pleasure, and yet there were tears in her eyes, too, as she returned Maud’s kiss.
“You dear little girl!” she exclaimed, a trifle unsteadily. “Why, no one has kissed me since—oh, not in ever so long, and it’s so very sweet to be loved.”
“May we kiss you too?” inquired Dulcie, impulsively.
Miss Polly held out her arms.
“Indeed you may,” she said, heartily. “You have given me a beautiful evening, and it will be quite an exciting story to write Tom next Sunday, how four dear little neighbors came to see me, through a mysterious door in a wall.”
“I can’t help whether Grandma would approve or not,” said Dulcie, when they were back in the nursery. “I am sure Papa and Mamma would want us to go and see that poor dear little Miss Polly just as often as we could. And, after all, Papa is the person we have to mind.”
“He’ll know all about it when he gets my letter,” said Daisy, in a tone of satisfaction. “I think we might write Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie about it, too; I’m sure they would be interested, and they would never tell Grandma. I know Miss Polly must be a very lovely Christian, even if she doesn’t tell her brother every bit of the truth. Just think of having to stay in one room all the time, and never being able to get out of a wheel-chair. Nobody else could bear it as she does. I’m quite sure it’s our duty to go and see her.”
“I don’t know which I like best, Miss Leslie or Miss Polly,” remarked Molly, reflectively.
“I do,” cried Maud; “I think Miss Polly is the loveliest lady in the world, and I’m going to ‘minister’ to her, the way you said. I don’t know what ‘ministering’ means, but I’m going to find out, and then I’ll do it just as hard as I can.”