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.