Helen and Polly were seated together in the pleasant morning-room. Helen occupied her mother’s chair, her feet were on a high footstool, and by her side, on a small round table, stood a large basket filled with a heterogeneous collection of odd socks and stockings, odd gloves, pieces of lace and embroidery, some wool, a number of knitting needles, in short, a confused medley of useful but run-to-seed-looking articles which the young housekeeper was endeavoring to reduce out of chaos into order.
“Oh, Polly, how you have tangled up all this wool; and where’s the fellow of this gray glove? And—Polly, Polly—here’s the handkerchief you had such a search for last week. Now, how often do you intend me to put this basket in order for you?”
“Once a week, dear, if not oftener,” answered Polly, in suave tones. “Please don’t speak for a moment or two, Nell. I’m so much interested in this new recipe for pie-crust. You melt equal portions of lard and butter in so much boiling water—that’s according to the size of the pie; then you mix it into the flour, kneading it very well—and—and—and—” Polly’s voice dropped to a kind of buzz, her head sank lower over the large cookery-book which she was studying; her elbows were on the table, her short curling hair fell over her eyes, and a dimpled hand firmly pressed each cheek.
Helen sighed slightly, and returned with a little gesture of resignation to the disentangling of Polly’s work-basket. As she did so she seated herself more firmly in her mother’s arm-chair. Her little figure looked slight in its deep and ample dimensions, and her smooth fair face was slightly puckered with anxiety.
“Polly,” she said, suddenly; “Polly, leave that book alone. There’s more in the world than housekeeping and pie-crust. Do you know that I have discovered something, and I think, I really do think, that we ought to go on with it. It was mother’s plan, and father will always agree to anything she wished.”
Polly shut up Mrs. Beaton’s cookery-book with a bang, rose from her seat at the table, and opening the window sat down where the wind could ruffle her hair and cool her hot cheeks.
“This is Friday,” she said, “and my duties begin on Monday. Helen, pie-crust is not unimportant when success or failure hangs upon it; puddings may become vital, Helen, and, as to cheesecakes, I would stake everything I possess[Pg 25] in the world on the manner in which father munches my first cheesecake. Well, dear, never mind; I’ll try and turn my distracted thoughts in your direction for a bit. What’s the discovery?”
“Only,” said Helen, “that I think I know what makes father look so gray, and why he has a stoop, and why his eyes seem so sunken. Of course there is the loss of our mother, but that is not the only trouble. I think he has another, and I think also, Polly, that he had this other trouble before mother died, and that she helped him to bear it, and made plans to lighten it for him. You remember what one of her plans was, and how we weren’t any of us too well pleased. But I have been thinking lately, since I began to guess father’s trouble, that we ought to carry it out just the same as if our mother was with us.”
“Yes,” said Polly. “You have a very exciting way of putting things, Nell, winding one up and up, and not letting in the least little morsel of light. What is father’s trouble, and what was the plan? I can’t remember any plan, and I only know about father that he’s the noblest of all noble men, and that he bears mother’s loss—well, as nobody else would have borne it. What other trouble has our dear father, Nell? God wouldn’t be so cruel as to give him another trouble.”
“God is never cruel,” said Helen, a beautiful, steadfast light shining in her eyes. “I couldn’t let go the faith that God is always good. But father—oh, Polly, Polly, I am dreadfully afraid that father is going to lose his sight.”
“What?” said Polly. “What? father lose his sight? No, I’m not going to listen to you, Nell. You needn’t talk like that. It’s perfectly horrid of you. I’ll go away at once and ask him. Father! Why, his eyes are as bright as possible. I’ll go this minute and ask him.”
“No, don’t do that, Polly. I would never have spoken if I wasn’t really sure, and I don’t think it would be right to ask him, or to speak about it, until he tells us about it himself. But I began to guess it a little bit lately, when I saw how anxious mother seemed. For she was anxious, although she was the brightest of all bright people. And after her death father said I was to look through some of her letters; and I found one or two which told me that what I suspected was the case, and father may—indeed, he probably will—become quite blind, by-and-by. That was—that was—What’s the matter, Polly?”
“Nothing,” said Polly. “You needn’t go on—you needn’t say any more. It’s a horrid world, nothing is worth living for; pie-crust, nor housekeeping, nor nothing. I hate the world, and every one in it, and I hate you most of all, Nell, for your horrid news. Father blind! No, I won’t believe it; it’s all a lie.”
“Poor Polly,” said Helen. “Don’t believe it, dear, I wish I didn’t. I think I know a little bit how you feel. I’m not[Pg 26] so hot and hasty and passionate as you, and oh, I’m not half, nor a quarter, so clever, but still, I do know how you feel; I—Polly, you startle me.”
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