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Page 40
There had been seven or eight weeks of partial unconsciousness, when
the sorrow and the loneliness of life stole into her waking dreams only
vaguely and at intervals; when she was unhappy, and could not remember
why; and slept, to wake and wonder and sleep again.
Then there were days and weeks when the labor of living was all that
the jaded body could accomplish; when memory was weak; when life began
at the pillow, and ended at the foot of the bed, and the universe was
bounded by the chamber windows.
But when her strength came back, and she stood in the middle of the
floor, clothed and in her right mind, well enough to remember,--oh!
then indeed the deep waters of bitterness rolled over poor Polly's head
and into her heart, and she sank beneath them without a wish or a
struggle to rise.
"If it had been anything else!" she sobbed. "Why did God take away my
most precious, my only one to live for, when I was trying to take care
of her, trying to be good, trying to give back the strength that had
been poured out on me,--miserable, worthless me! Surely, if a girl was
willing to do without a father and sisters and brothers, without good
times and riches, willing to work like a galley slave, willing to
'scrimp' and plan and save for ever and ever; surely 'they' might be
willing that she should keep her mother!"
Poor Polly! Providence at this time seemed nothing more than a
collection of demons which she classified under the word "they," and
which she felt certain were scourging her pitilessly and needlessly.
She could not see any reason or justification in "their"
cruelties,--for that was the only term she could apply to her
afflictions.
Mrs. Bird had known sorrow, and she did her best to minister to the
troubled and wrong little heart; but it was so torn that it could be
healed only by the soft balm of Time.
Perhaps, a long while after such a grief,--it is always "perhaps" in a
great crisis, though the certainty is ours if we will but grasp
it,--perhaps the hidden meaning of the sorrow steals gently into our
softened hearts. We see, as in a vision, a new light by which to work;
we rise, cast off the out-grown shell, and build us a more stately
mansion, in which to dwell till God makes that home also too small to
hold the ever-growing soul!
CHAPTER XIII.
A GARDEN FLOWER, OR A BANIAN-TREE.
In August Mr. John Bird took Polly to the Nobles' ranch in Santa
Barbara, in the hope that the old scenes and old friends might soothe
her, and give her strength to take up the burden of life with something
of her former sunshiny spirit.
Edgar was a junior now, back at his work, sunburned and strong from his
summer's outing. He had seen Polly twice after his return to San
Francisco; but the first meeting was an utter failure, and the second
nearly as trying. Neither of them could speak of the subject that
absorbed their thoughts, nor had either courage enough to begin other
topics of conversation. The mere sight of Edgar was painful to the
girl now, it brought to mind so much that was dear, so much that was
past and gone.
In the serenity of the ranch-life, the long drives with Margery and
Philip, the quiet chats with Mrs. Noble, Polly gained somewhat in
strength; but the old "spring," vitality, and enthusiasm had vanished
for the time, and the little circle of friends marveled at this Polly
without her nonsense, her ready smiles, her dancing dimples, her
extravagances of speech.
Once a week, at least, Dr. George would steal an hour or two, and
saddle his horse to take Polly for a gallop over the hills, through the
ca�ons, or on the beach.
His half-grave, half-cheery talks on these rides did her much good. He
sympathized and understood and helped, even when he chided, and Polly
sometimes forgot her own troubles in wondering whether Dr. George had
not suffered and overcome a good many of his own.
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