 | Chapter VIII Polly of the Circus |  |
8. Chapter VIII
WHEN Polly understood that Toby was actually gone, it seemed to her that she could never laugh again. She had been too young to realise the inevitableness of death when it came to her mother, and now she could scarcely believe that Toby would never, never come back to her. She felt that she must be able to drag him back, that she could not go on without him. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for all his care of her. She thought of the thousand little things that she might have done for him. She longed to recall every impatient word to him. His gentle reproachful eyes were always haunting her. "You must come back, Toby!'' she cried. "You must!''
It was only when body and mind had worn themselves out with yearning, that a numbness at last crept over her, and out of this grew a gradual consciousness of things about her and a returning sense of her obligation to others. She tried to answer in her old, smiling way and to
Douglas and Mandy were overjoyed to see the colour creeping back to her cheeks.
She joined the pastor again in his visits to the poor. The women of the town would often see them passing and would either whisper to each other, shrug their shoulders, or lift their eyebrows with smiling insinuations; but Polly and the pastor were too much absorbed in each other to take much notice of what was going on about them.
They had not gone for their walk to-day, because Mandy had needed Polly to help make ready for the social to be held in the Sunday-school-room to-night.
Early in the afternoon, Polly had seen Douglas shut himself up in the study, and she was sure that he was writing; so when the village children stopped in on the way from school for Mandy's new-made cookies, she used her customary trick to get them away. "Tag—you're it!'' she cried, and then dashed out the back door, pursued by the laughing, screaming youngsters. Mandy followed the children to the porch and stood looking
The leaves once more were red and yellow on the trees, but to-day the air was warm, and the children were wearing their summer dresses. Polly's lithe, girlish figure looked almost tall by comparison with the children about her. She wore a plain, simple gown of white, which Mandy had helped her to make. It had been cut ankle-length, for Polly was now seventeen. Her quaint, old-fashioned manner, her serious eyes, and her trick of knotting her heavy, brown hair low on her neck, made her seem older.
Mandy waited until the children had disappeared over the hill, then began bustling about looking for the step-ladder which Hasty had left under the vines of the porch. It had been a busy day at the parsonage. A social always meant perturbation for Mandy. She called sharply to Hasty, as he came down the path which made a short cut to the village:
"So's you'se back, is you?'' she asked, sarcastically.
"Sure, I'se back,'' answered Hasty, good-naturedly, as he sank upon an empty box that had held some things for the social, and pretended to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.
"Massa John done send you to de post office two hours ago,'' said Mandy, as she took the letters and papers from his hand. "Five minutes is plenty ob time for any nigger to do dat job.''
"I done been detained,'' Hasty drawled.
"You'se always 'tained when dar's any work a-goin' on,'' Mandy snapped at him.
"Whar's Miss Polly?'' Hasty asked, ignoring Mandy's reference to work.
"Nebber you mind 'bout Miss Polly. She don't want you. Jes' you done fetch that step-ladder into de Sunday-school-room.''
"But I wants her,'' Hasty insisted. "I'se been on very 'ticular business what she ought to know 'bout.''
"Business?'' she repeated. "What kind ob business?''
"I got to fix de Sunday-school-room,'' said Hasty, as he perceived her growing curiosity.
"You come heah, nigger!'' Mandy called, determined
"Well, it's 'bout de circus,'' Hasty answered, seating himself again on the box. "Dey's showin' in Wakefield to-night, and next month dey's comin' here.''
"Dat same circus what Miss Polly used to be wid?'' Mandy's eyes grew large with curiosity.
"De very same,'' and Hasty nodded mysteriously.
"How you know dat?'' Mandy was uncertain whether to believe him.
" 'Cause da's a big, red wagon downtown wid de name ob de show painted on it. It's de advertisin' one what goes ahead wid all de pictures what dey pastes up.''
"And you been hangin' 'roun' dat wagon?''
"I done thought Miss Polly might want to know.''
"See here, lazy nigger, don' you go puttin' no circus notions into Miss Polly's head. She don' care no more 'bout dem things since her Uncle Toby done die. She done been satisfied right whar she am. Jes' you let her be.''
"I ain't done nothin','' Hasty protested.
"Nebber do do nothin','' growled Mandy. "Go long now, and get a-work. Mos' four o'clock and dat Sunday-school-room ain't ready yet.''
Hasty picked up the empty box and the step-ladder and went out through the gate. He had barely disappeared when a peal of laughter was heard from the hillside, and before Mandy could get out of the way, the youngsters came tumbling down the path again.
"Lawsy, lawsy,'' she gasped, as Polly circled around her, dodging the children. "You'se cheeks is red as pineys, honey.''
"Tag! you're it!'' Polly cried, as she touched the widow's auburn-haired offspring on the sleeve. There was much wailing when Willie passed the tag to little Jennie, the smallest girl in the crowd.
"I won't play no more,'' she sobbed; " 'cause I's always it.''
To comfort her, Polly began to sing an old circus song that the children had learned to love; and the little ones huddled about her in a circle to hear of the wonderful "Van Amberg'' who used to "walk right into the lion's cage and put his head in the lion's mouth.'' The children were
"When you get a minute I want ter tell yer somethin'.''
"I have one right now.'' And turning to the eager mites at her side, Polly told them to run along into the grove, and that she'd come pretty soon to teach them a new game.
The youngsters went screaming and laughing on their way, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she threw herself down on the rustic seat that encircled the elm tree.
"What is it, Hasty?'' she asked, suspecting that he was in trouble with Mandy.
"It's 'bout de circus,'' Hasty informed her bluntly.
"The circus?'' She rose and crossed to him quickly.
"It's in Wakefield—en' nex' month it's a-comin' here.''
"Here?'' Polly gasped.
"I thought you'd want ter know,'' said Hasty, little surprised at her lack of enthusiasm.
"Yes, of course.'' She turned away and pretended to look at the flowers.
"Don' yous tell Mandy I been talkin' 'bout dat circus,'' said Hasty, uneasily. He was beginning to fear that he had made a mistake; but before Polly could answer, Mandy came out of the house, carrying baskets and food, which Hasty was to take to the Sunday-school-room. She looked at the girl's troubled face and drooping shoulders in surprise.
"What make you look so serious, Honey?''
"Just thinking,'' said Polly absently.
"My! Don' you look fine in your new dress!'' She was anxious to draw the girl out of her reverie.
"Do you like it?'' Polly asked eagerly, forgetting her depression of a moment before. "Do you think Mr. John will like it?''
"Massa John? Mercy me! He nebber takes no notice ob dem things. I done got a bran', spankin' new allapaca, one time, an' do you think he ebber seed it? Lawsy, no! We might jes' well be goin' roun' like Mudder Eve for all dat man know.'' Polly looked disappointed. "But udder folks sees,'' Mandy continued, comfortingly, "an' you certainly look mighty fine.
"Yes, I'm well now and able to work again.'' There was no enthusiasm in her tone, for Hasty's news had made her realise how unwelcome the old life would be to her.
"Work! You does work all de time. My stars! de help you is to Massa John.''
"Do you think so? Do I help him?— Do I?''
"Of course you does. You tells him things to do in Sunday-school what the chillun like, an' you learns him to laugh and 'joy himself, an' a lot of things what nobody else could a-learned 'im.''
"You mustn't say `learned him,' '' Polly corrected; "you must say `taught him.' You can't `learn' anybody anything. You can only `teach' them.''
"Lordy sakes! I didn't know dat.'' She rolled her large eyes at her young instructress, and saw that Polly looked very serious. "She's gwine ter have anudder one a dem 'ticlar spells'' thought Mandy, and she made ready to protest.
"See here, ain't you nebber—''
She was interrupted by a quick "Have you never'' from Polly.
"It dun make no difference what you say,'' Mandy snapped, "so long as folks understands you.'' She always grew restive under these ordeals; but Polly's firm controlled manner generally conquered.
"Oh, yes, it does,'' answered Polly. "I used to think it didn't; but it does. You have to say things in a certain way or folks look down on you.''
"I's satisfied de way I be,'' declared Mandy, as she plumped herself down on the garden bench and began to fidget with resentment.
"The way I am,'' Polly persisted, sweetly.
"See here, chile, is day why you been a-settin' up nights an' keepin de light burnin'?''
"You mustn't say `setting up;' you must say `sitting up.' Hens set—''
"So do I,'' interrupted Mandy; "I's doin' it now.'' For a time she preserved an injured silence, then turned upon Polly vehemently. "If I had to think ob all dat ere foolishness eber' time I open my mouth, I'd done been tongue-tied afore I was born.''
"I could teach you in no time,'' volunteered Polly, eagerly.
"I don't want to be teached,'' protested Mandy, doggedly. "Hast Jones says I's too smart anyhow. Men don't like women knowin' too much— it skeers 'em. I's good enough for my old man, and I ain't a-tryin' to get nobody else's,'' Mandy wound up flatly.
"But he'd like you all the better,'' persisted Polly, laughing.
"I don' want to be liked no better by no nigger,'' snapped Mandy. "I's a busy woman, I is.'' She made for the house, then curiosity conquered her and she came back to Polly's side. "See here, honey, whose been l'arnin' you all dem nonsense?''
"I learn from Mr. Douglas. I remember all the things he tells me, and at night I write them down and say them over. Do you see this, Mandy?'' She took a small red book from her belt and put it into Mandy's black chubby fists.
"I see some writin', if dat's what you mean,'' Mandy answered, helplessly.
"These are my don'ts,'' Polly confided, as she pointed enthusiastically to worn pages of finely written notes.
"You'se what, chile?''
"The things I mustn't do or say.''
"An' you'se been losin' yoah beauty sleep for dem tings?'' Mandy looked incredulous.
"I don't want Mr. John to feel ashamed of me,'' she said with growing pride.
"Well, you'd catch Mandy a-settin' up for—''
"Oh, oh! What did I tell you, Mandy?'' Polly pointed reproachfully to the reminder in the little red book. It was a fortunate thing that Willie interrupted the lesson at this point, for Mandy's temper was becoming very uncertain. The children had grown weary waiting for Polly, and Willie had been sent to fetch her. Polly offered to help Mandy with the decorations, but Willie won the day, and she was running away hand in hand with him when Douglas came out of the house.
"Wait a minute!'' he called. "My, how fine you look!'' He turned Polly about and surveyed the new gown admiringly.
"He did see it! He did see it!'' cried Polly, gleefully.
"Of course I did. I always notice everything, don't I, Mandy?''
"You suah am improvin' since Miss Polly come,'' Mandy grunted.
"Come, Willie!'' called the girl, and ran out laughing through the trees.
"What's this?'' Douglas took the small book from Mandy's awkward fingers, and began to read: `Hens set—' '' He frowned.
"Oh, dem's jes' Miss Polly's `don'ts,' '' interrupted Mandy, disgustedly.
"Her `don'ts'?''
"She done been set—sit—settin' up nights tryin' to learn what you done tole her,'' stuttered Mandy.
"Dear little Polly,'' he murmured, then closed the book and put it into his pocket.
| Chapter VIII Polly of the Circus | |