The Camp Fire Girls' Careers
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“They are from Billy,” Mollie said without any hesitation or pretense of anything but pleasure. “He says that he has sent a great many so that I may wear them tonight and tomorrow and then again tomorrow night to the dance, as I care for pink roses more than any flower. It was good of Meg to ask Billy to come over for her College holiday dance. I should have been dreadfully embarrassed with one of Meg’s strange Harvard friends for my escort. And Billy says he would have been abominably lonely in Woodford with all of us away.”
Mollie’s second gift was a bunch of red and white carnations, bearing Anthony Graham’s card. “How kind of Anthony to remember me,” she protested, “when he was never a special friend of mine. But of course he sent me the flowers because I happened to be yours and Esther’s guest and he is coming here to dinner tonight with Meg. But do please be less slow and let me see what you have received.”
For almost reluctantly Betty Ashton seemed to be opening her gifts. Nevertheless she could not conceal a quick cry of admiration at what she saw first. The box was an oblong purple one tied with gold ribbon. But here at Christmastide, in the midst of Boston’s cold and dampness, lay a single great bunch of purple violets and another of lilies of the valley. Hurriedly Betty picked up the card that lay concealed beneath them. Just as Mollie’s had, it bore Anthony Graham’s name, and formal good wishes, but something else as well which to any one else would have appeared an absurdity. For it was a not very skilful drawing of a small ladder with a boy at the foot of it.
“Gracious, it must be true that John is making a fortune in his broker shop in Wall Street, as Meg assures me!” Betty exclaimed gayly the next moment, thrusting her smaller box of flowers away, to peep into the largest of the four offerings. “I did not realize John had yet arrived in Boston, Meg was not sure he would be able to be with her for the holidays. It is kind of him, I am sure, to remember me, isn’t it Mollie? And there is not much danger of my being unable to wear John’s flowers with any frock I have, he has sent such a variety. I believe I’ll use the mignonette tonight, it is so fragrant and unconventional.”
Betty spoke almost sentimentally and this state of mind was so unusual to her that for a moment Mollie only stared in silence. However, as her friend disappeared into the bathroom to begin her toilet for the evening Mollie remarked placidly, “The violets would look ever so much prettier with your blue dress.”
Esther’s round mahogany table seated exactly twelve guests. On her right was Richard Hunt, the actor, with Anthony Graham on her left, next him was Meg, then Billy Webster and Mollie O’Neill. To the right of Dr. Ashton, Margaret Adams had the place of honor, then came a Harvard law student who was a special admirer of Meg’s, then a new friend of Esther’s and then John Everett and Betty Ashton. As the entire arrangement of the company had been made through Betty’s suggestion, doubtless she must have chosen the companions at dinner that she most desired. Polly’s friend, Richard Hunt, sat on her other side with Meg and Anthony nearly opposite.
There had been no lack of cordiality on Betty’s part toward any one of their visitors. On Anthony’s arrival with Meg Everett she had thanked him for his gift in her most charming manner, but had made no reference to the card which he had enclosed nor to the fact that she preferred wearing other flowers than his. Meg was looking unusually pretty tonight and very frankly Betty told her so. Her soft blond hair was parted on the side with a big loose coil at the back and a black velvet ribbon encircled her head. Professor Everett was not wealthy and Meg’s college education was costing him a good deal, therefore she had ordinarily only a moderate sum of money for buying her clothes and no special talent for making the best of them. However, this evening her dress had been a Christmas gift from her brother John and, as it was of soft white silk and lace, particularly becoming to Meg’s pretty blondness. Her blue eyes were shining with a kind of veiled light and her color came and went swiftly. She seemed just as ingenuous and impulsive as she had ever been, until it was difficult to know what must be the truth about her. Several times during the evening Esther told herself sternly that of course Meg had a perfect right to accept Anthony Graham’s attentions if she liked, for there had never been any definite understanding between him and her sister, and indeed that she had disapproved of him in the past. Yet now Anthony Graham, in spite of his origin, might have been considered a good match for almost any girl. He was a distinguished looking fellow, with his brilliant foreign coloring, his dark hair and high forehead. Esther recalled having once felt keenly sorry for him because the other girls and young men in their group of friends had not considered him their social or intellectual equal. Now he was entirely self-possessed and sure of himself. Yet he did seem almost too grave for their happy Betty; possibly it was just as well he had transferred his interest to Meg. No one could ever succeed in making Meg Everett serious for any great length of time. She was still the same happy-go-lucky girl of their old Camp Fire days whom “a higher education” was not altering in the least. Yet the “higher education” may have given her subjects of conversation worthy of discussing with Anthony, for certainly they spent a great part of the time talking in low tones to each other.
Betty appeared in the gayest possible spirits and had never looked prettier. Richard Hunt seemed delighted with her, and John Everett had apparently returned to the state of admiration which he had always felt when they had been boy and girl together in Woodford. Indeed Betty did feel unusually animated and excited; she could hardly have known why except that she had spent a rather dull winter and that she was extremely excited at seeing her old friends again. And then she and Mr. Hunt had so much to say to each other on a subject that never failed to be interesting – Polly!
Neither he nor Miss Adams had the faintest idea of what had become of that erratic young person, although Margaret Adams had also received a Christmas letter from her. But where she was or what she was doing, no one had the faintest idea. It was evident that Mr. Hunt highly disapproved of Polly’s proceedings, and although until the instant before Betty had felt exactly as he did, now she rallied at once to her friend’s defense.
“Mr. Hunt, you must not think for an instant that Polly was ungrateful either to Miss Adams or to you for your many kindnesses, only she had to do things in her own Polly fashion, one that other people could not exactly understand. But if one had ever been fond of Polly,” Betty insisted, “you were apt to keep on caring for her for some reason or other which you could not exactly explain. Not that Polly was as pretty or perhaps as sweet as Mollie.”
Several times during the evening Betty had noticed that every now and then her companion had glanced with interest toward Mollie O’Neill. However, when he now agreed with her last statement; she was not sure whether his agreement emphasized the fact of Mollie’s superior prettiness, or that Polly was an unforgettable character.
Without a doubt Esther’s and Dick’s first formal dinner party was a pronounced success. The food was excellent, the two maids, one of whom was hired for the occasion, served without a flaw. There was only one trifling occurrence that might have created a slight disturbance, and this situation fortunately Betty Ashton saw in time to save.
She happened to be sitting at the side of the table that faced the windows. Earlier in the evening one of these windows had been opened in order to cool the room and the curtain left partly up. The wind was not particularly high and no one seemed to be inconvenienced. But most unexpectedly toward the close of the dinner a gale must have sprung up. Because there was a sudden, sharp noise at the window and without warning the blind rolled itself to the topmost ledge with startling abruptness, as if some one had pulled sharply at the cord and then let go.
Then another noise immediately followed, not so startling but far more puzzling. The first racket had caused every member of the little company to start instinctively. Then at the same instant, before Richard Ashton, who chanced to be pouring a glass of water for Margaret Adams, could get up from his place, Betty turned to Richard Hunt. John Everett happened to be talking to his other neighbor at the moment.
“Mr. Hunt,” Betty asked quickly, “won’t you please close that window for us? It is too cold to have it open and besides one does not altogether like the idea that outside persons might be able to look into the room.”
Perhaps Richard Hunt was just a moment longer at the window in the performance of so simple a task than one might have expected, but no one observed it.
As he took his place again and Betty thanked him she looked at him with a slight frown.
“Did you see a ghost, Mr. Hunt?” she queried. “It is not a comfortable night even for a ghost to be prowling about. It is too lonely an occupation for Christmas eve.”
Richard Hunt smiled at his companion in return. “Oh, I am always seeing ghosts, Miss Ashton,” he answered; “I suppose it is because I have an actor’s vivid imagination.”
CHAPTER XI – A Christmas Song and Recognition
The entire number of guests who had been together at Esther’s and Dick Ashton’s Christmas-eve dinner, agreed to be at church the following morning in order to hear Esther sing.
In spite of the fact that Boston is one of the most musical of American cities and Esther the most modest of persons, even in so short a time her beautiful voice had given her an enviable reputation. The papers in giving notice of the morning service had mentioned the fact that the solo would be given by Mrs. Richard Ashton. But church music must have been Esther’s real vocation, for no matter how large the congregation nor how difficult her song she never felt any of her old nervousness and embarrassment. For one thing she was partly hidden behind the choir screen, so she need not fear that critical eyes were upon her; she could be alone with her music and something that was stronger and higher than herself.
On Christmas morning Betty entered their pew with her brother Dick, Mollie O’Neill and Billy Webster. She was wearing a dark green broadcloth with a small black velvet toque on her red-brown hair and a new set of black fox furs that her brother and sister had given her that morning for a Christmas present. She was pale and a little tired from yesterday’s festivities, so that a single red rose which had come to her from some unknown source that morning, was the only really bright color about her except for the lights in her hair. Mollie was flushed and smiling with the interest in the new place and people and the companionship of tried friends.
Betty thought that Margaret Adams also seemed weary when she came in with Mr. Hunt a few moments later. She was glad that the great lady happened to be placed next her so that she might feel the thrill of her nearness. For genius is thrilling, no matter how simple and unpretentious the man or woman who possesses it. Margaret Adams wore a wonderful long Russian sable coat and a small velvet hat and, just as naturally as if she had been another girl, slipped her hand into Betty’s and held it during the service.
So that in spite of her best efforts Betty could not keep her attention from wandering now and then. She knew that Margaret Adams was almost equally as devoted to Polly O’Neill as she herself and wondered what she thought of their friend’s conduct. She wished that they might have the opportunity to talk the matter over before Miss Adams finished her stay in Boston. Then, though realizing her own bad manners, Betty could not help being a little curious over the friendship between Miss Adams and Mr. Hunt. They seemed to have known each other such a long, long time and to have acted together so many times. Of course Margaret Adams was several years older, but that scarcely mattered with so unusual a person.
Moreover, there were other influences at work to keep Betty Ashton’s mind from being as firmly fixed upon the subject of the morning’s sermon as it should have been. For was she not conscious of the presence of Meg and John Everett and Anthony Graham in the pew just back of her? And though it did seem vain and self-conscious of her, she had the sensation that at least two pairs of eyes were frequently concentrated upon the back of her head or upon her profile should she chance to turn her face half way around.
When the offertory was finally announced and Esther began the first lines of her solo, not only was her sister Betty’s attention caught and held, but that of almost every other human being in the church. It was not a beautiful Christmas day, outside there were scurrying gray clouds and a kind of bleak coldness. But the church was warmly and beautifully lighted, the altar white with lilies and crimson with roses, speaking of passion and peace. And Esther’s voice had in it something of almost celestial sweetness. She was no longer a girl but a woman, for Dick’s love and a promise of a fulfilment equally beautiful had added to her natural gift a deeper emotional power. And she sang one of the simplest and at the same time one of the most beautiful of Christmas hymns.
Betty was perfectly willing to allow all the unhappiness and disappointments of the past few months to relieve themselves in the tears that came unchecked. Then she saw Margaret Adams bite her lips and close her eyes as if she too were shutting out the world of ordinary vision to live only in beautiful sound and a higher communion.
“Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King; Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled! Joyful, all ye nations, rise, Join the triumph of the skies; With the angelic host proclaim, Christ is born in Bethlehem. Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King. “Christ, by highest heaven adored; Christ, the everlasting Lord; Late in time behold Him come, Offspring of a virgin’s womb. Veil’d in flesh the Godhead see, Hail, th’ Incarnate Deity! Pleased as man with man to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel! Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King. “Hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail, the Sun of righteousness! Light and life to all He brings, Risen with healing in His wings. Mild He lays His glory by, Born that man no more may die; Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them second birth. Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King.”At the close of the service, turning to leave the church, Betty Ashton felt a hand laid on her arm, and glancing up in surprise found Anthony Graham’s eyes gazing steadfastly into hers.
“We are friends, are we not, Betty? You would not let any misunderstanding or any change in your life alter that?” he asked hurriedly.
For just an instant the girl hesitated, then answered simply and gracefully:
“I don’t think any one could be unfaithful to an old friendship on Christmas morning after hearing Esther sing. It was not in the least necessary, Anthony, for you to ask me such a question. You know I shall always wish you the best possible things.”
Then, without allowing the young man to reply or to accompany her down the aisle, she hurried away to her other friends, and, slipping her arm firmly inside Mollie O’Neill’s, she never let go her clasp until they were safely out of church.
“It is no use, Meg, nothing matters,” Anthony Graham said a quarter of an hour later, when he and Margaret Everett were on their way home together, John having deserted them to join the other party. “The fact is, Betty does not care in the least one way or the other what I say or do.”
“Then I wish you would let me tell her the truth,” Meg urged. “You see, Anthony, the Princess and I have always been such intimate friends and I have always admired her more than any of the other girls. I don’t wish her to misunderstand us. She may not be so brilliant as Polly, nor so clever as Sylvia or your sister Nan, but somehow Betty is – well, I suppose she is what a real Princess ought to be. That is what Polly always declared. It is not just because she is pretty and generous, but she is so high-minded. Nothing would make her even appear to take advantage of a friend.” And Meg sighed, her usually happy face clouding.
In silence, then, the girl and young man walked on for a few moments when Anthony replied: “You must do as you like, of course, Meg. I have no right to ask you anything else. But this understanding between us means everything in the world to me and it was your own offer in the beginning.”
Meg nodded. “Yes, I know; but truly I don’t think as much of my idea as I did at first. Still I am willing to keep quiet for a while longer if you wish it.”
At this moment there was no further opportunity for intimate conversation, for Meg’s Harvard friend, Ralph Brown, made his appearance with a five-pound box of candy, elaborately tied with red ribbon, under his arm, and an expression on his face that suggested politely but firmly that Anthony Graham retire for the present, leaving the field to him.
Of their friends in Boston only Margaret Adams and Richard Hunt had been invited by Esther and Dr. Ashton to have an informal Christmas dinner with them. For the dinner party the evening before had been such a domestic strain upon the little household that they wished to spend the following day quietly. But it was impossible to think of Margaret Adams dining alone in a great hotel, and she would certainly accept no invitation from her wealthier and more fashionable acquaintances in Boston. Moreover, Betty hoped that in the afternoon there might be a chance to talk of Polly. At the beginning no one had dreamed of including Richard Hunt in the invitation, as he was a comparative stranger; but Dick, having taken a sudden fancy to him, had calmly suggested his returning for Christmas day without due consultation with his family.
Five minutes after starting for home with Dick and Esther, Mollie, Betty and Miss Adams, Mr. Hunt, with a murmured excuse which no one understood, asked to be excused from going further. He would join the party later if possible, but should he chance to be delayed dinner must on no account be kept waiting for him.
His conduct did seem rather extraordinary, and although Dick and Esther betrayed no surprise, it was plain enough that Margaret Adams felt annoyed. She had introduced Mr. Hunt to her friends and so naturally felt responsible for his conduct.
Though the man was aware of his apparent eccentricity and though his manners were usually nearly perfect, he now deliberately turned away from the little company. And in spite of his half-hearted suggestion of re-joining them he had little idea at present of when he would return. Deliberately he retraced his steps to the church which he had quitted only a few moments before.
Already the place was nearly deserted. On the sidewalk the clergyman was saying farewell to a few final members of his congregation, while inside the sexton was closing the doors of the two side aisles, although the large door in the center still remained open. Hurriedly Mr. Hunt entered. And there, just as he had hoped to find her, was the figure of a girl sitting in a rather dejected attitude in one of the last pews. She had on a dark dress and a heavy long coat and about her head a thick veil was tied.
Before he could reach her she had risen and was starting away.
“Wait here for a moment, Miss O’Neill; we can find no other spot so quiet in which to have a talk,” the man said sternly.
Then as Polly flashed an indignant glance at him, attempting to pass as though she had neither seen nor recognized him, he added:
“I know I have no right to intrude upon you, but unless you are willing to give me some explanation of why you are here and what you are doing, I shall tell the friends who are nearer to you than I am of my having seen you not only this morning, but last night as well.”
“Oh, please don’t!” Polly’s voice was trembling. “Really, truly, I am not doing anything wrong in staying here in Boston and not letting people hear. My mother knows where I am and what I am doing and of course I am not alone. Yes, it was utterly silly and reckless of me to have peeped in at Esther’s dining-room window last night, but I was so dreadfully lonely and wanted to see everybody so much. How could I have dreamed that that wretched curtain would go banging away up in the air as it did? But anyhow, Mr. Hunt, I shall always be everlastingly grateful to you for not telling on me last night. I did not suppose you saw me and certainly never imagined you could have recognized me when I crouched down in the shadow.”
Unexpectedly Polly O’Neill laughed. “What a perfect idiot I should have looked if you had dragged me in before the dinner party like a spy or a thief or a beggar! I can just imagine Esther’s and Mollie’s expressions.”
“Yes, but all this is not quite to the point, Miss Polly,” Richard Hunt continued, speaking however in a more friendly tone. “Am I to tell Margaret Adams and Betty Ashton that I have discovered you, or will you take me into your secret and let me decide what is best to be done afterwards?”
“But you have not the right to do either the one thing nor the other,” the girl argued, lifting her veil for an instant in order to see if there was any sign of relenting in the face of her older friend.
There was not the slightest. And Polly recognized that for once in her life she was beaten.
“Don’t say anything today then, please,” she urged, looking into her pocketbook and finding there a card with a name and address written upon it. “But come to see me tomorrow if you like. And don’t think that I am ungrateful or – or horrid,” she ended abruptly, rushing away so swiftly that it would have been impossible for any one to have followed her without creating attention.
Rather grimly Richard Hunt gazed at the card he held in his hand. It bore a name that was not Polly O’Neill’s and the address of a quiet street in Boston. What on the face of the earth could she be doing? It was impossible to guess, and yet it was certainly nothing very unwise if her mother knew and approved of it.
Whether or not he had the right to find out, Richard Hunt had positively decided to take advantage of his recognition of Polly O’Neill and insist upon her confidence. He could not have explained even to himself why he was so determined on this course of action. However, it was true, as her friend Betty Ashton had insisted the night before, whether or not you happened to feel a liking for Polly, you were not apt to forget her.
In the past few months it was curious how often he had found himself wondering what had become of the girl. He recalled her having run away several years before to make her first stage appearance and then their meeting in Margaret Adams’ drawing room in London later on. Well, perhaps curiosity was not alone a feminine trait of character, for Richard Hunt felt convinced he would be more at peace with himself and the world when he had learned Polly’s story from her own lips.
CHAPTER XII – After Her Fashion Polly Explains
The next afternoon a dark-haired woman a little past thirty came into the boarding house sitting room to see Richard Hunt before Polly made her appearance.
“I am Mrs. Martins, Miss O’Neill’s chaperon,” she explained. “Or if I am not exactly her chaperon at least we are together and I am trying to see that no harm befalls her. No, she is not calling herself by her own name, but she will prefer to give you her own reason for that. I have met her mother several times, so that of course I understand the situation.” Mrs. Martins was a woman of refinement and of some education and her pronunciation of her own name showed her to be of French origin.
Already the situation was slightly less mystifying. Yet there was still a great deal for Polly to make clear if she chose to do so. However, it was curious that she was taking so long a time to join them.
Mrs. Martins continued to talk about nothing in particular, so it was evident that she intended making no betrayals. Now and then she even glanced toward the door in some embarrassment, as though puzzled and annoyed by her companion’s delay. And while Richard Hunt was answering her politely if vaguely, actually he was on the point of deciding that Polly did not intend coming down stairs at all. Well perhaps it would serve him right, for what authority did he have for forcing the girl’s confession? And she was certainly quite capable of punishing him by placing him in an absurd situation.