POLLY PENDLETON’S VISITOR
THE cynically smiling driver of Haddon’s car at a late hour that
morning deposited a solitary passenger at the door of a certain
apartment building high up on Manhattan Island. Seeing the bewilderment
of his charge, the chauffeur himself entered the elevator with him and
touched as with no unaccustomed hand a certain button near a door. He
then discreetly departed.
The door opened. There appeared almost in the face of the waiting
visitor the figure of a young woman—exceedingly comely even at that
hour of the day—a young woman of oval face, of dark, long-lashed eyes,
of dark curling hair, of shapeliness of figure scantly veiled by the
pink kimono which she wore in morning negligée.
It was Polly Pendleton. She was alone. Her praiseworthy partner had
before this arisen for her morning cocktail, her morning coffee, her
morning cigarette, and her morning stroll downtown.
Joslin stood motionless, silent. In a flash she recognized him. Then he
stalked in.
“Well!” said she. “I wasn’t expecting anyone this morning.” She
flushed, half angry. “I don’t allow this.”
“My name is Joslin—David Joslin,” began her visitor. “Ye don’t
remember me—last night——”
“Oh, yes, I do,” said Polly. “Of course I do. You wore the same clothes
then you’re wearing now.”
“They’re the only ones I have,” said the young man, “an’ they’re not
mine. I don’t reckon ye want me to come in?”
“Why, yes,” said she, for one half instant hesitant, and closed the
door. “Why not, after all?”
He looked about him curiously at the narrow quarters. So, then, this
was her home! These were her belongings—the half-emptied glasses on
the little buffet, the ashes in a tray, the powder puff, pink-stained,
on the dresser-top, the manicure nail pad, the little burnt cork on a
hairpin’s end.
“Won’t you sit down?” began Polly Pendleton, more flustered than she
had ever been in all her life. “Will you have a little drink?”
He looked at her in astonishment “Surely ye ain’t meanin’ that ye’d
take a drink of liquor, Ma’am?” said he.
“Well,” said Polly Pendleton, with a _moue_, “once in a long
_while_—in case I’m not feeling well, you know! How about yourself?
You look rocky.”
He looked in grave contemplation at the half-filled bottle upon the
tiny buffet—the glasses which had seen use.
“Ma’am,” said he, “sometimes in my country a man takes a drink of
liquor. Sometimes a woman smokes a pipe. But I don’t think I’ll take no
drink this mornin’. It ain’t my usual custom.”
Polly seated herself in a deep-cushioned armchair near the window, her
half-consumed cigarette still between her fingers. A pleasing enough
picture she presented, as, half leaning forward, she sat staring
curiously at this apparition of the morning.
“You’re an odd sort!” said she, at length, flinging up a hand
nervously. “Well, I’ve not got down to the pipe yet.”
“Say, friend,” she went on suddenly, half apologetically, “I was
talking to my partner last night. She said that she thought our act
rather broke you up. Of course you know it was all joshing—nothing
more. That’s the way we do at those dinner parties—they sort of expect
it of us girls, you know. There’s nothing in it, of course. I hope you
didn’t mind it?”
“No,” he said quietly, “I didn’t mind. The ways of sin are allurin’,
Ma’am.”
“What’s that!” But then she spread out her hands. An awkward silence
fell.
The eyes of David Joslin, roaming around the little apartment, spied
Polly’s violin resting upon the dresser-top.
“Ye play the violin, Ma’am,” said he. “Ye’re the first womern I ever
knew in all my life who could. I reckon ye studied?”
“Years,” said she simply. “It cost me a lot of money—and at that they
don’t like the best things I do. You can play?”—eagerly.
“Only a few of the mounting tunes—ballets such as our folks teached us
years ago.”
“Ballads? You mean the folk songs?”
“Maybe. I could play ‘Barbara Allen.’ They tolt me it was Scotch.”
“The Scotch have pretty melodies sometimes,” said Polly Pendleton
judicially. Then she smiled frankly. “You see, I’m half Irish
myself—and half French.”
“What?” David Joslin sat up suddenly and looked at her straight.
“Ma’am, my own granny was half Irish and half French. There wasn’t
nuvver a womern in all the mountings like her. That maybe accounts fer
a heap of things. My granny loves to sing and dance. She’s over ninety
year old.”
The unweighed flattery of his tone was a thing to be valued. She
extended to him the instrument and bow.
“Play for me,” said she. “Play ‘Barbara Allen.’ Do something for _me_
this morning!”
So David Joslin, student of Calvin, Cumberland mountaineer,
self-elected minister—and as he now fully felt, lost soul—thus cast
away in a buffet flat of upper Manhattan, played the old ballad of
“Barbara Allen” to one of the gayest young persons at that time in the
great city. He played it in minors, bowing very badly, missing the key
sometimes a half-note or so, slurring here, over-accentuating there,
phrasing after his own quaint mountain fashion, but none the less
producing something which might have been called a melody. Polly’s foot
began to beat upon the floor, her fingers upon the arm of the chair.
“Man!” said she, after he had finished, “if I could take you into
vaudeville, we’d break this country! That’s _class_!”
“It’s not much,” said he, misunderstanding. “I nuvver had no lessons.
I’ve nuvver been to school in all my life, an’ I nuvver seen a music
book in all my life—I reckon that’s music ye got over thar?” He nodded
towards the sheets which he saw standing in their rack.
“You’re an odd chap,” said she, with a strange softness in her tone.
“I’ve never seen a man like you—never in all my life. You’re a strange
chap. What brought you here?”
“I come out, Ma’am, to build a college fer my people. I come out to git
my education. I come up here with Mr. Haddon, jest to talk to a few
friends of his’n about timber an’ oil, ye know.”
“Jimmy Haddon, eh?” Polly’s lips set rather tight together. “Well, he’s
a good business man. You have to hand him that. But say—keep an eye
on him, that’s all. Listen here, son—you’re what we call ‘easy’ in the
city. You don’t belong here—you’re too straight—you’re too good for
it.”
“What do ye mean?” said he. “Too good! I’m the wustest of sinners.
But if I accepted sin—say, if I made a lot of money—several hundred
dollars a month—an’ had it clear—would ye tell me to throw that over
an’ go back home?”
The dark eyes of Polly Pendleton looked straight into his face now.
“There’s a lot of things a girl can understand without explaining very
much,” said she, simply. She saw the rising somber flame in this man’s
eyes that met her own so straight. And then, suddenly, he broke out,
all restraints gone.
“Last night ye _touched_ me—it was in a joke—ye was makin’ me
foolish. Ye don’t know how foolish ye made me then. Ye took away my
brains. Ye got my soul. God!”
“I don’t want you to talk that way to me!” flashed Polly, swift tears
in her eyes. “No, no—don’t—don’t! It wasn’t right for me to make fun
of you—I ought to have known you were different. I came home last
night, and I talked about you to my partner. Somehow, I don’t know why,
you seem like a preacher to me. Besides, once in a while a woman sees
something in a real man that gets close to her.”
She rose now and spread out her arms, a very beautiful vision of young
womanhood, a sort of fair frailness about her after all, in spite of
her eager vitality and her overflowing joy in life.
“Why, listen,” said she. “I know about men. You needn’t make any map
to explain anything more to me. You’d be foolish, you’d be crazy; and
I’ll not have it. I’m not good enough for you. You mustn’t stay here.
You mustn’t be foolish over a girl like me—I’m not worth it. I’m—I’m
notgood!” She slurred the last two words hurriedly together. “Get on
out of here before you’re spoiled.”
Her voice trembled. “The city will get you, some time. It’s got me.
It’s got my partner. We’re gone. Lost souls! You? Oh, don’t, _don’t_!
You haven’t gone the gait that we have. Listen to me now—I think
enough of a good square chap not to want to see him go the wrong way.
Can’t you see that a dancing girl can be a good pal after all? I’m
trying to _help_ you.”
“Easy!” said he, his voice trembling in his own self-scorn. “I had
nothin’, only what ye taken away from me.”
“Take some of this, won’t you?” said Polly Pendleton, her doubled hands
full of bills which she held out to him, her dark eyes shining. “Here,
take it. Do something with it. You wouldn’t call that tainted money,
would you?... It isn’t tainted yet. Look!”
But he put back her hands. “No,” said he. “My God! No! From ye?”
He hurt her, because she wholly mistook his real meaning. Her face
fell, but she shook her head bravely, like a fighter taking a blow in
the ring.
“Ye never cared,” he added; “ye don’t feel—ye don’t care.” The low
notes of his voice rumbled through the little room.
An odd feeling of helplessness seized her all at once. “It’s a good
thing for you, I don’t,” said she at length. “Don’t I know men are
fools enough without making another fool to add to the list? If I
cared—good God, if I _cared_! Why, I don’t _dare_ care for anybody.
Now, don’t you think you’d better be going?”
She had his hat in her hand, and was replacing the violin and bow.
He rose and stood before her, his hands clenched tight, his eyes still
burning, his voice vibrant.
“Ma’am,” said he, “I nuvver seen ye but once. Maybe I nuvver will agin.
But I’ll al-_ways_remember what ye said to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was hopin’ ye’d say it would be a good piece of business fer me to
stay here this winter fer a while. I was hopin’ I could see ye an’
hear ye play some time, now an’ then. I was hopin’—I was hopin’ what
I ortern’t to hope. Ma’am, I nuvver seen no womern like ye in all my
life. I reckon I nuvver will agin.”
“Well,” said Polly Pendleton, at length having herself in hand, “you’ve
got none the best of me at that—I’ve seen a considerable many fools in
my time, but you’re the human limit, son! The best thing I can do is to
tie a can to you and get you started West as soon as possible. You’ll
spoil over _night_. You ain’t strictly human. You’re the worst Rube
that ever hit this island from any place on earth. Get out now—you’re
liable to be arrested any minute!
“And yet,” she added—still laughing kindly, and all the half-virginal
softness of her original nature coming into the wistfulness of her
tone—“I’m so glad you came! You’re a good sort.” She held out her
hand. “Listen, friend—when you think of me I hope you’ll say I was a
good sort too.”
He reached out his arms, his hands trembling. “Ma’am,” said he, “I’m
a married man. I had two children, onct. My father was a preacher. Ye
was right, I’m startin’ out to be a preacher myself. I was startin’ out
to do something in the world to hep the rest of them. But if ye hadn’t
said what ye said jest now to me, I’d be willin’ to throw it all away
for jest—for jest—for jest——”
How, he knew not, nor she, he caught her arms, soft and white, in the
grip of his great hands, and stood looking down at her fiercely, she as
helpless as a child in his grasp.
She was struggling to escape him now. “It’s not right!” said she. “I’m
alone here—Oh, are you any kind of a man after all?”
At this he dropped her arms, his own falling lax.
“Why, of course I’m a man,” said he quietly. “Of course I am. That’s
all I am. I’m a lost man, a damned one.”
“Go!” she whispered to him hoarsely. “I’m not worth that. Go on away,
and leave me something decent to remember.” She heard the door close
softly.
Within half an hour after Joslin had left, Polly Pendleton, unfinished
cigarette in hand, turned in her cushioned armchair as she heard the
strident call of the telephone.
“Yes?” she replied. “Who is it, please?... You, Jimmy?... No, don’t
come up. I’m awfully busy to-day.... I’ve got to work.
“Who?—the wild man?... Keep him?... Ask him to stay here this winter?
I should say _not_! I told him to get out of town!
“Oh, come now, Jimmy,” she went on in rejoinder to what she evidently
heard. “There’s no use talking that way.... Oh, you’re sore? Well, I
can’t help it. I wouldn’t have done any different even if you had told
me what you wanted.... You don’t care if I never come back? Oh, very
well—same to you, and many of ‘em!... So long, Jimmy, and when you get
decent come up. I may let you in, and then again maybe not.”