Polly.

by L. T. Meade.

A NEW-FASHIONED GIRL.

CHAPTER I.

A GREAT MISFORTUNE.

It was an intensely hot July day--not a cloud appeared in the high blue vault of the sky; the trees, the flowers, the gra.s.ses, were all motionless, for not even the gentlest zephyr of a breeze was abroad; the whole world seemed lapped in a sort of drowsy, hot, languorous slumber.

Even the flowers bowed their heads a little weariedly, and the birds after a time ceased singing, and got into the coolest and most shady parts of the great forest trees. There they sat and talked to one another of the glorious weather, for they liked the heat, although it made them too lazy to sing.

It was an open plain of country, and although there were clumps of trees here and there, great clumps with cool shade under them, there were also acres and acres of common land on which the sun beat remorselessly. This land was covered with heather, not yet in flower, and with bracken, which was already putting on its autumn glory of yellow and red. Neither the bracken nor the heather minded the July heat, but the b.u.t.terflies thought it a trifle uncomfortable, and made for the clumps of trees, and looked longingly and regretfully at what had been a noisy, babbling little brook, but was now a dry and stony channel, deserted even by the dragon-flies.

At the other side of the brook was a hedge, composed princ.i.p.ally of wild roses and hawthorn bushes, and beyond the hedge was a wide d.y.k.e, and at the top of the d.y.k.e a wire paling, and beyond that again, a good-sized vegetable garden.

From the tops of the trees, had any one been energetic enough to climb up there, or had any bird been sufficiently endowed with curiosity to glance his bright eyes in that direction, might have been seen smoke, ascending straight up into the air, and proceeding from the kitchen chimneys of a square-built gray house.

The house was nearly covered with creepers, and had a trellis porch, sheltering and protecting its open hall-door. Pigeons were cooing near, and several dogs were lying flat out in the shade which the wide eaves of the house afforded. There was a flower garden in front, and a wide gravel sweep, and a tennis court and croquet lawn, and a rose arbor, and even a great, wide, cool-looking tent. But as far as human life was concerned the whole place looked absolutely deserted. The pigeons cooed languidly, and the dogs yapped and yawned, and made ferocious snaps at audacious and troublesome flies. But no one handled the tennis bats, nor took up the croquet mallets; no one stopped to admire the roses, and no one entered the cool, inviting tent. The whole place might have been dead, as far as human life was concerned; and although the smoke did ascend straight up from the kitchen chimney, a vagrant or a tramp might have been tempted to enter the house by the open hall door, were it not protected by the lazy dogs.

Up, however, by the hedge, at the other side of the kitchen garden, could be heard just then the crackle of a bough, the rustle of a dress, and a short, smothered, impatient exclamation. And had anyone peered very close they would have seen lying flat in the long gra.s.ses a tall, slender, half-grown girl, with dark eyes and rosy cheeks, and tangled curly rebellious locks. She had one arm raised, and was drawing herself deliberately an inch at a time along the smooth gra.s.s. Several birds had taken refuge in this fragrant hedge of hawthorn and wild roses. They were talking to one another, keeping up a perpetual chatter; but whenever the girl stirred a twig, or disturbed a branch, they stopped, looking around them in alarm, but none of them as yet seeing the p.r.o.ne, slim figure, which was, indeed, almost covered by the gra.s.ses. Perfect stillness once more--the birds resumed their conversation, and the girl made another slight movement forward. This time she disturbed no twig, and interrupted none of the bird gossip. She was near, very near, a tempting green bough, and on the bough sat two full-grown lovely thrushes; they were not singing, but were holding a very gentle and affectionate conversation, sitting close together, and looking at one another out of their bright eyes, and now and then kissing each other with that loving little peck which means a great deal in bird life.

The girl felt her heart beating with excitement--the birds were within a few inches of her--she could see their b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaving as they talked. Her own eyes were as bright as theirs with excitement; she got quite under them, made a sudden upward, dexterous movement, and laid a warm, detaining hand on each thrush. The deed was done--the little prisoners were secured. She gave a low laugh of ecstasy, and sitting upright in the long gra.s.s, began gently to fondle her prey, cooing as she talked to them, and trying to coax the terrified little prisoners to accept some kisses from her dainty red lips.

"Poll! Where's Polly Parrot?--Poll--Poll--Poll!" came a chorus of voices. "Poll, you're wanted at the house this minute. Where are you hiding?--You're wanted at home this minute! Polly Parrot--where are you, Polly?"

"Oh, bother!" exclaimed the girl under her breath; "then I must let you go, darlings, and I never, never had two of you in my arms at the same moment before. It's always so. I'm always interrupted when I'm enjoying ecstasy. Well, good-by, sweets. Be happy--bless you, darlings!"

She blew a kiss to the released and delighted thrushes, and stood upright, looking very lanky and cross and disreputable, with bits of gra.s.s and twig sticking in her hair, and messing and staining her faded, washed cotton frock.

"Now, what are you up to, you scamps?--can't you let a body be?"

"Oh, Polly!"

Two little figures came tumbling down the gravel walk at the other side of the wire fence. They were hot and panting, and both dest.i.tute of hats.

"Polly, you're wanted at the house. Helen says so; there's a b-b-baby come. Polly Perkins--Poll Parrot, you'd better come home at once, there's a new b-b-baby just come!"

"A _what_?" said Polly. She vaulted the d.y.k.e, cleared the fence, and kneeling on the ground beside her two excited, panting little brothers, flung a hot, detaining arm round each.

"A baby! it isn't true, Bunny? it isn't true, Bob? A real live baby? Not a doll! a baby that will scream and wriggle up its face! But it can't be. Oh, heavenly! oh, delicious! But it can't be true, it can't! You're always making up stories, Bunny!"

"Not this time," said Bunny. "You tell her, Bob--she'll believe you. I heard it yelling--oh, didn't it yell, just! And Helen came, and said to send Polly in. Helen was crying, I don't know what about, and she said you were to go in at once. Why, what is the matter, Poll Parrot?"

"Nothing," said Polly, "only you might have told me about Helen crying before. Helen never cries unless there's something perfectly awful going to happen. Stay out in the garden, you two boys--make yourselves sick with gooseberries, if you like, only don't come near the house, and don't make the tiniest bit of noise. A new baby--and Helen crying! But mother--I'll find out what it means from mother!"

Polly had long legs, and they bore her quickly in a swift race or canter to the house. When she approached the porch the dogs all got up in a body to meet her; there were seven or eight dogs, and they surrounded her, impeding her progress.

"Not a bark out of one of you," she said, sternly, "lie down--go to sleep. If you even give a yelp I'll come out by and by and beat you. Oh, Alice, what is it? What's the matter?"

A maid servant was standing in the wide, square hall.

"What is it, Alice? What is wrong? There's a new baby--I'm delighted at that. But why is Helen crying, and--oh!--oh!--what does it mean--you are crying, too, Alice."

"It's--Miss Polly, I can't tell you," began the girl. She threw her ap.r.o.n over her head, and sobbed loudly. "We didn't know where you was, miss--it's, it's--We have been looking for you everywhere, miss. Why, Miss Polly, you're as white, as white--Don't take on now, miss, dear."

"You needn't say any more," gasped Polly, sinking down into a garden chair. "I'm not going to faint, or do anything silly. And I'm not going to cry either. Where's Helen? If there's anything bad she'll tell me.

Oh, do stop making that horrid noise, Alice, you irritate me so dreadfully!"

Alice dashed out of the open door, and Polly heard her sobbing again, and talking frantically to the dogs. There was no other sound of any sort. The intense stillness of the house had a half-stunning, half-calming effect on the startled child. She rose, and walked slowly upstairs to the first landing.

"Polly," said her sister Helen, "you've come at last. Where were you hiding?--oh, poor Polly!"

"Where's mother?" said Polly. "I want her--let me go to her--_let_ me go to her at once, Nell."

"Oh, Polly----"

Helen's sobs came now, loud, deep, and distressful. There was a new baby--but no mother for Polly any more.

CHAPTER II.

ALL ABOUT THE FAMILY.

Dr. Maybright had eight children, and the sweetest and most attractive wife of any man in the neighborhood. He had a considerable country practice, was popular among his patients, and he and his were adored by the villagers, for the Maybrights had lived in the neighborhood of the little village of Tyrsley Dale for many generations. Dr. Maybright's father had ministered to the temporal wants of the fathers and mothers of these very same villagers; and his father before him had also been in the profession, and had done his best for the inhabitants of Tyrsley Dale. It was little wonder, therefore, that the simple folks who lived in the little antiquated village on the borders of one of our great southern moors should have thought that to the Maybrights alone of the whole race of mankind had been given the art of healing.

For three or four generations the Maybright family had lived at Sleepy Hollow, which was the name of the square gray house, with its large vegetable garden, its sheltered clump of forest trees, and its cultivated flower and pleasure grounds. Here, in the old nursery, Polly had first opened her bright blue-black eyes; in this house Dr.

Maybright's eight children had lived happily, and enjoyed all the sunshine of the happiest of happy childhoods to the full. They were all high-spirited and fearless; each child had a certain amount of individuality. Perhaps Polly was the naughtiest and the most peculiar; but her little spurt of insubordination speedily came to nothing, for mother, without ever being angry, or ever saying anything that could hurt Polly's sensitive feelings, had always, with firm and gentle hand, put an extinguisher on them.

Mother was really, then, the life of the house. She was young to have such tall slips of daughters, and such little wild pickles of sons; and she was so pretty and so merry, and in such ecstasies over a picnic, and so childishly exultant when Helen, or Polly, or Katie, won a prize or did anything the least bit extraordinary, that she was voted the best playfellow in the world.

Mother was never idle, and yet she was always at leisure, and so she managed to obtain the confidences of all the children; she thoroughly understood each individual character, and she led her small brood with silken reins.

Dr. Maybright was a great deal older than his wife. He was a tall man, still very erect in his figure, with square shoulders, and a keen, bright, kindly face. He had a large practice, extending over many miles, and although he had not the experience which life in a city would have given him, he was a very clever physician, and many of his brothers in the profession prophesied eminence for him whenever he chose to come forward and take it. Dr. Maybright was often absent from home all day long, sometimes also in the dead of night the children heard his carriage wheels as they bowled away on some errand of mercy. Polly always thought of her father as a sort of angel of healing, who came here, there, and everywhere, and took illness and death away with him.

"Father won't let Josie Wilson die," Polly used to say; or, "What bad toothache Peter Simpkins has to-day--but when father sees him he will be all right."

Polly had a great reverence for her father, although she loved her beautiful young mother best. The children never expected Dr. Maybright to join in their games, or to be sympathetic over their joys or their woes. They reverenced him much, they loved him well, but he was too busy and too great to be troubled by their little concerns. Of course, mother was different, for mother was part and parcel of their lives.

There were six tall, slim, rather straggling-looking Maybright girls--all overgrown, and long of limb, and short of frock. Then there came two podgy boys, greater pickles than the girls, more hopelessly disreputable, more defiant of all authority, except mother's. Polly was as bad as her brothers in this respect, but the other five girls were docility itself compared to these black lambs, whose proper names were Charley and John, but who never had been called anything, and never would be called anything in that select circle, but Bunny and Bob.

This was the family; the more refined neighbors rather dreaded them, and even the villagers spoke of most of them as "wondrous rampageous!" But Mrs. Maybright always smiled when unfriendly comments reached her ears.

"Wait and see," she would say; "just quietly wait and see--they are all, every one of them, the sweetest and most healthy-minded children in the world. Let them alone, and don't interfere with them. I should not like perfection, it would have nothing to grow to."