Half a Dozen Girls | Page 4

for an occasional
pleasure drive.
If Polly had been asked what was her greatest trial, her answer, truthful
and emphatic, would have been: "Aunt Jane." It was a mystery to her as,
indeed, it was to every one else, how two sisters could be so unlike.
Mrs. Adams was a pretty, graceful little woman, with a dainty charm
about her, and a winning, off- hand manner, which made her a favorite
with both young and old. Aunt Jane Roberts was tall and thin, with a

cast-iron sort of countenance, surmounted by a row of little, tight, gray
frizzles of such remarkable durability that, though evidently the result
of art rather than nature, neither wind nor storm, appeared to have any
effect upon them. On festal occasions it was her habit to adorn herself
with a symmetrical little blue satin bow, placed above these curls and
slightly to one side; but there was nothing in the least flippant or
coquettish about this decoration, for it was as precise and unvarying as
the gray frizz below it, and only seemed to intensify the hard,
unyielding lines of her face.
Miss Roberts was fifteen years older than her sister, and she appeared
to have been stamped with the seal of single blessedness while she still
lay in her cradle and played with her rattle;-- that is, if she ever had
unbent so far as to play with anything. Even her walk was not like that
of most women; she moved along with a slow, deliberate stride which
was at times almost spectral, and reminded one of the resistless,
onward march of the fates. Aunt Jane was serious-minded and
progressive, and, worst of all, she was conscientious. However great a
blessing a conscience must be considered, there are some consciences
that make their owners extremely unpleasant. Whenever Aunt Jane was
particularly trying, her friends brought forward the singular excuse:
"Jane is so conscientious; she means to do just right." And she certainly
did. So far as she could distinguish its direction, Aunt Jane trod the
path of duty, but she trod it as a martyr, not like one who finds it a
pleasant, sunshiny road, with bright, interesting spots scattered all
along its way. She had advanced ideas about women and pronounced
theories as to the rearing of children; she was a member of countless
clubs, and served on all the committees to talk about reform; she visited
the jail periodically, and marched through the wards of the hospital
with a stony air of sympathy highly gratifying to the inmates, who tried
to be polite to her because of her relationship to the doctor, whom they
all adored. The demands of her public duties left Miss Roberts little
time for home life; but in the few rare intervals, she sewed for her sister,
refusing the more attractive work, and devoting herself to sheets,
pillow-cases, and kitchen towels, in the penitential, self-sacrificing way
which is so trying to the person receiving the favor. She appeared to
regard these labors as an offset to the frank criticisms of her sister's

housekeeping, which she never hesitated to make when the opportunity
offered. Aunt Jane had come to live with her sister soon after Mrs.
Adams was married; and the doctor's happy, even temper enabled him
to make the best of the situation, though he had at once given Miss
Roberts to understand that she was in no way to interfere with him or
his concerns.
No introduction to the Adams family would be complete which failed
to mention Job Trotter, for Job was a faithful servant who had done
good service for many a long day. He was the old family horse whom
the doctor had driven for years, but who, owing to age and infirmity,
had been put on the retired list as a veteran, and given over to the
tender mercies of Mrs. Adams. She changed his youthful nickname of
Trot to the more fitting one of Job, and stoutly maintained his
superiority to the lively colt that succeeded him between the thills of
the doctor's buggy. Job, too, appeared to share her opinion, and never
failed to give a vicious snap at his rival, whenever they came in contact.
There was a family legend that Job had been a fast animal in his day,
and Mrs. Adams often told the story of the doctor's first ride after him:
how, at the end of a mile, he had turned his pale face to the horse-dealer
who was driving, and piteously besought him: "In mercy's name, man,
let me get out; I've had enough of this!" But all this was enveloped in
the haze of the remote past, and now Job was neither a dangerous nor
exhilarating steed, but rather, a restful one, who allowed his driver to