Polly | Page 5

Polly lay on her white bed, Dr. Maybright opened the door and came in. He was a very tall man, and he had to stoop as he passed under the low, old-fashioned doorway, and as he walked across the room to Polly's bedside the rays of the setting sun fell on his face, and he looked more like a beautiful healing presence than ever to the child. She was lying on her back, with her eyes very wide open; her face, which had been bright and round and rosy, had grown pale and small, and her tearless eyes had a pathetic expression. She started up when she saw her father come in, gave a glad little cry, and then, remembering something, hid her face in her hands with a moan.
Dr. Maybright sat down in the chair which Helen had occupied the greater part of the day. He did not take any notice of Polly's moan, but sat quite still, looking out at the beautiful, glowing July sunset. Wondering at his stillness, Polly presently dropped her hands from her face, and looked round at him. Her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to fill.
"If I were you, Polly," said the doctor, in his most matter-of-fact and professional manner, "I would get up and come down to tea. You are not ill, you know. Trouble, even great trouble, is not illness. By staying here in your room you are adding a little to the burden of all the others. That is not necessary, and it is the last thing your mother would wish."
"Is it?" said Polly. The tears were now brimming over in her eyes, but she crushed back her emotion. "I didn't want to get up," she said, "or to do anything right any more. She doesn't know--she doesn't hear--she doesn't care."
"Hush, Polly--she both knows and cares. She would be much better pleased if you came down to tea to-night. I want you, and so does Helen, and so do the other girls and the little boys. See, I will stand by the window and wait, if you dress yourself very quickly."
"Give me my pocket-handkerchief," said Polly. She dashed it to her eyes. No more tears flowed, and by the time the doctor reached the window he heard a bump on the floor; there was a hasty scrambling into clothes, and in an incredibly short time an untidy, haggard-looking, but now wide-awake, Polly stood by the doctor's side.
"That is right," he said, giving her one of his quick, rare smiles.
He took no notice of the tossed hair, nor the stained, crumpled, cotton frock.
"Take my arm, Polly," he said, almost cheerfully. And they went down together to the old parlor where mother would never again preside over the tea-tray.
It was more than a week since Mrs. Maybright had died, and the others were accustomed to Helen's taking her place, but the scene was new to the poor, sore-hearted child who now come in. Dr. Maybright felt her faltering steps, and knew what her sudden pause on the threshold meant.
"Be brave, dear," he whispered. "You will make it easier for me."
After that Polly would have fought with dragons rather than shed a ghost of a tear. She slipped into a seat by her father, and crumbled her bread-and-butter, and gulped down some weak tea, taking care to avoid any one's eyes, and feeling her own cheeks growing redder and redder.
In mother's time Dr. Maybright had seldom spoken. On many occasions he did not even put in an appearance at the family tea, for mother herself and the group of girls kept up such a chatter that, as he said, his voice would not be heard; now, on the contrary, he talked more than any one, telling the children one or two most interesting stories on natural history. Polly was devoted to natural history, and in spite of herself she suspended her tea-cup in the air while she listened.
"It is almost impossible, I know," concluded Dr. Maybright as he rose from the table. "But it can be done. Oh, yes, boys, I don't want either of you to try it, but still it can be done. If the hand is very steady, and poised in a particular way, then the bird can be caught, but you must know how to hold him. Yes--what is the matter, Polly?"
"I did it!" burst from Polly, "I caught two of them--darlings--I was kissing them when--oh, father!"
Polly's face was crimson. All the others were staring at her.
"I want you, my dear," said her father, suddenly and tenderly. "Come with me."
Again he drew her hand protectingly through his arm, and led her out of the room.
"You were a very good, brave child at tea-time," he said. "But I particularly wish you to cry. Tears are natural, and you will